Soul Survivor
by Catsluver
Summary: AU to the year between season seven and season eight. Sam didn't just get over losing Dean, and he didn't just get on with his life. Was there a girl? Yes there was a girl and then there wasn't, but it wasn't Amelia. Sam finds something he never had, and it wasn't just a girl.
1. Survivor

This story is beta'd by the awesome Sam's Folly. I can't thank her enough for all her insights and her help.

"_I lost my brother. It felt like my world imploded and came raining down on me, and I ran." - Sam Winchester – Supernatural - s8_

_**Soul Survivor**_

_**Chapter One – Survi**__**v**__**or**___  
…...

They won. They killed Dick, the leader of the Leviathans. It was a hard-won victory after a yearlong struggle . . . and, now, Dean was gone. Everyone was gone. Everyone except Sam.

_"You are well and __truly__ on your own."_

White-hot fear exploded in Sam's chest. The sheer force of it sent him stumbling forward, dazed and nearly falling to his knees. He turned around in aimless circles, looking in every corner of the empty room, his arms held out ready to defend and his body crouched low ready to pounce.

Sam Winchester was the sole survivor of the fight, and when reality finally hit him—that Dean was gone, Cas was gone, Kevin and Meg were gone, and Bobby was dead—Sam lost it. He fell to his knees, his face buried in his hands.

"Dean?" There was no one to hear Sam's whispered prayer.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream, but, instead, he concentrated on breathing. He breathed and he waited, but nothing happened. No one came—no Leviathans, no demons—not even the cops. It was as if the single most dangerous threat to mankind hadn't just been thwarted here, as if they hadn't just saved the fricking world—again—and paid the ultimate price for it—again.

Sam's fingers threaded through his hair, clawing at his scalp. He'd done it again, thrown everything he had into this fight. Everything. He'd lost it all—everything gone for a world that would never know the cost and would charge headlong into the next end-of-the-world disaster without a clue. Sam sniffed in a deep breath, rubbing the back of his hand against his dripping nose. What would be the cost the next time? He had nothing left to lose, nothing left to give.

"_You are well and truly on your own."_

"Shut up," Sam hissed at Crowley's smug voice echoing in his head.

The sunlight streaming through the window blinds shifted with the slow movement of time, long slender strips of light that eventually disappeared into Sam's shadow. On his knees, hunched over and trembling, Sam saw the strips of light as the blades of swords piercing through him. He felt the heat of the light across his back, lashes from a dark master, punishment for not saving his brother—again. It was his punishment for being alive.

There was some reason for him to do this—to keep breathing, to keep living. There was something he was supposed to do. . . something . . .

The morning came, and when it did, he remembered.

Sam blew up the lab. In fact, he set so much explosive throughout the building, he blew up the entire complex of SucroCorp. He stood beside the broken Impala—without Dean—and watched as flames engulfed the buildings. Long orange tongues of fire and huge rolling clouds of black smoke billowed into the sky, carrying away the last traces of Richard Roman's grand plan. World domination by the Leviathans had ended before it ever began.

"It's done," Sam said to no one.

He kept breathing. There was some reason for him to do this—to breathe, to live. There was something he was supposed to do . . . something . . .

"_Take care of my wheels." _The memory of Dean's voice brought on a new wave of tears.

"I will, Dean," Sam promised.

The Impala's face was broken and bent. There were long scars in her shiny black finish where she'd been smashed through the fancy glass marquee that had displayed the proud SucroCorp name. The sign was an empty frame and a mass of shattered glass shards strewn across the lawn. But Baby was still here. Dean's baby was still here, and Sam wasn't alone. He absently picked pieces of glass off the hood, tossing them aside. She wasn't dead. He would fix her just like new, so when Dean came back he wouldn't have to see her scarred and broken.

"I'll take care of your wheels, Dean." Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked up the number of a garage nearby, waited until they came, and watched as they towed her away.

He managed to retrieve his duffel and his laptop from the Impala. He hoped the repairman at the body shop didn't open the trunk, and if he did, that he wouldn't find the false bottom and the weapons cache. The damage to the Impala was to the front end, and Sam gave specific instruction to fix the front only. He didn't want to lose the weapons they'd collected over a lifetime, the only things he and Dean owned.

_I have the Impala, and Dean'll be back to get her. _

Sam breathed and lived, because there was something he was supposed to do.

"_Keep fighting."_

The lump in his throat swelled. _How? How can I?_

"_Sammy, remember what I taught you. Remember what Dad taught you."_

"Okay, Dean." He swallowed hard against the knot in his throat and nodded to a memory.

He pulled out his phone again and looked up the local motels. He chose the Apple Tree Inn and checked in under the name Jim Rockford, because that's what he and Dean always did when they got separated—the first motel in the Yellow Pages and Jim Rockford. That's how Dean would be able to find him.

But Dean didn't find him.

Day two at the Apple Tree Inn: Sam called the body shop. It would be a couple of days at least before they finished the car. They had to order parts. Sam waited.

Dean didn't find him.

Day three: He spent hours researching, hunting for any clue on the Leviathans. It was as if they never existed, any evidence of their presence on earth erased.

Dean didn't find him.

Day four: Sam called the body shop; another couple of days at least. He spent hours in the stacks at Loyola University searching for clues. It was the best day he'd had since he'd lost Dean. The musty smell of the ancient books was somehow comforting. It reminded him of digging around in Bobby's library, running his hands over the yellowed pages of obscure texts. He spent the entire day among the oldest books in the library.

When he'd first arrived, a portly, older gentleman led him to the section that included ancient religious texts. Sam didn't see another soul until the evening, when another librarian, a tall lean woman, approached him. She had hard features that strangely softened when she smiled at what must have appeared to her to be a young theology student so dedicated to his work he didn't even break to eat.

"We're ready to close up." She placed a graceful hand on Sam's shoulder, and he nodded as he relinquished the book he was presently studying. "I'll put this away," she said. "You should get something to eat. I hear you've been here all day."

Sam smiled weakly. It occurred to him that he was thirsty and the hollow feeling that had annoyed him all afternoon might be hunger, but he wasn't really sure.

"Did you find what you needed?" the woman asked. The eyes that focused on Sam were sympathetic, as if she understood, as if he hadn't found the information he needed for some grand thesis in pursuit of a degree, for letters to tack behind his name.

"No," Sam sighed. He didn't find anything that could explain what had happened to Dean or Kevin. There was nothing here to help him find his brother or the prophet of God. Sam almost growled aloud. _Let God find his own pro__phet__. _He needed his brother. He had to find Dean.

"I'm sorry." The woman's soft voice brought Sam back to himself. "If you know what you might need, we could make a list and I can pull more texts for you. I can have them waiting for you in the morning." She wanted to be helpful. Sam could see it in her eyes.

"No. I won't be back tomorrow," he answered flatly. He should have thanked her, but defeat weighed heavily on him.

He stopped at Windy City Brewery 'n' Bakery near campus and regretted it the moment he was seated—alone. He ordered a Cobb Salad and a dark ale, then called the waitress back to add a burger to his order. The meat was juicy, medium rare, and huge. It smelled like heaven as he ate his salad. It smelled like Dean, and it made Sam feel better, if only for a few moments.

That night, Sam stood in the middle of his room and tried to regroup. Four days, and he'd come up with nothing. He had no idea what happened to Dean or if he was still alive. He had no data and no workable leads. He scrolled through the contacts on his phone. Dead . . . dead . . . dead . . . no longer in service.

There was Garth. He thought about it. Dean had told Sam that Garth would grow on him. He hadn't. Sam didn't have any faith in Garth's abilities as a hunter. He thought the man was nice enough, but he should be in another line of work.

There was Sheriff Mills. He thought about it. Sam's thumb trembled as it hovered over her number. He would be signing her death warrant if he called her. He closed his eyes, overcome with guilt. She would end up dead, just like everyone else. She wasn't a hunter. She didn't sign on for this. Still, she'd helped him before . . . _No!_ Sam shut off his phone and shoved it in his pocket. There'd been enough deaths. He heaved a deep, tired sigh. He'd do this himself.

Day five: Sam called. The Impala should be ready tomorrow.

He went back to the remains of the lab and sifted through the smoldering rubble, finding nothing—nothing of Dean, nothing of the Leviathans, nothing of Kevin—as if none of them had ever been there.

He went back to the motel and prayed. "Castiel, it's Sam. I need your help." He waited. The quiet room slowly closed in on him. "Please, Cas. I lost Dean. Please help me." The words began to spill out of him, desperate and angry. "Castiel! Answer me, damn it! You owe me!" he screamed at the ceiling. "You owe Dean after what you did, you son-of-a-bitch!" Sam choked on the curse and hung his head. It didn't matter that Castiel didn't answer. The angel was useless. Taking Lucifer out of Sam's head had fried the angel's brain.

Day six: The Impala was repaired. Sam spent the afternoon washing off the dust and fingerprints from the repair shop. She shone like the surface of a mirror. His long fingers stroked lightly across the freshly waxed surface of her hood. The cool metal felt so familiar, the work of washing and polishing so comforting, that Sam forgot the empty feeling of missing his brother for the afternoon.  
The Impala was beautiful—perfect. Dean would never know she'd been broken. Sam closed his eyes and held tight as the empty feeling of loneliness and guilt, once again, infested his soul.

_"If you broke my car . . ."_

"I didn't, Dean! I fixed her. I fixed everything." Sam withered under Dean's wrath. "You'll see. When you get back . . ." He grabbed the waxing cloth and began methodically applying another layer of the white paste to the already sparkling surface of the car. "I'll fix it, Dean. I'll find a way. I'm gonna find you. I'm gonna get you back. I promise."

Day seven: Dean still hadn't found him. Dean wasn't going to find him. Dean was gone. Sam felt as if his throat would explode, and he swallowed frantically, unable to get anything past the brokenness inside him. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and fell forward, his upper body draped across the bed, his face buried in the covers, and cried.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered into the darkness.

"_The Family Business. Saving people. Hunting things."_

"I couldn't save Dad." Sam's body trembled. "I couldn't save you." His whisper disappeared into the covers. "I can't find you."

"_Keep fighting, Sammy."_

…...

The light from a halogen lamp poured into the underground library at the Campbell Family Compound, flooding the dark chamber as Sam descended the steps. He set the lamp, along with an empty duffel, on the big oak table that filled the only open space in the middle of the room.

Haphazard stacks of books, papers, and mismatched bookshelves filled with jumbled piles of assorted family journals surrounded him. He picked up an old leather-bound journal and gazed at the cover, lightly running his hand across the surface. He pictured Dean's delighted smile when he'd informed Sam that it was Samuel Colt's journal—_the_ Samuel Colt—hunter and gunmaker.

Sam closed his eyes and relived the moment.

"_Dude, no," Sam told him, excitement thrumming through him._

"_Dude, yes," Dean answered, showing off the leather journal. He slowly opened the cover for Sam to see Samuel Colt's signature on the title page._

"_Well, let me see it." Sam reached for the journal._

"_Get your own." Dean was smug as he pulled the journal possessively closer to him, still smiling in wonder at his prize._

"I'll save it for you."Sam stuffed the journal in his duffel and turned back to search for anything else that might shed some light on what happened to Dean.

After a day of plundering, he was no closer to figuring out what happened to Dean. He hauled the heavily stuffed duffel out of the library and tossed it into the back seat of the Impala before he headed west, toward Sioux Falls.

All night, twelve hours on the road to get to Sioux Falls, and no welcoming bed for him at Bobby's. Bobby was as close to a father to him and Dean as their own father had been. Sam's eyes clouded with tears as he remembered the many times he and Dean drove all night to get to here. Besides the Impala, this was the closest thing he had to a home, and it went up in flames, just like the home in Kansas, the home he'd never known.

"_Sam?" _Bobby's gruff voice was so soft Sam almost missed it_. "__I ain't cutting you out, boy . . . no__t__ ever."_

Sam felt something in him break, a small crack that leaked out a little of his soul. He would never again know the feeling of being safe in a bed, able to truly rest, burrowed deep beneath the covers. He would never again sit with Dean and Bobby, surrounded by the smell of whiskey and Old Spice.

Sam stopped at the diner in downtown Sioux Falls for lunch. He ordered a chef salad and a cheeseburger and fries. The waitress boxed up the burger and fries for him, but he left the box on the table.

He bought a bottle of Old Spice, a bottle of whiskey, and checked into the Arrowhead Inn under the name of Rockford. He opened both bottles as soon as he closed the door behind him. The smell of Old Spice filled Sam's nostrils, giving him warm memories of better times. The whiskey emptied Sam's mind, giving him precious release from doubt and guilt.

On his third morning in Sioux Falls, Sam emerged from his room, empty whiskey bottle discarded in the trash, a whopping headache, and whatever bile his stomach could conjure up swirling it's way down the drain. He bought aspirin and paint from a nearby discount store and wandered downtown to a fresh market to buy herbs. He stopped in at the diner for a big greasy breakfast complete with fried eggs, bacon, hash browns and a short stack, most of which hit his two-day empty, hung-over stomach and forced its way back up as Sam scrambled to make it to the toilet as soon as he returned to his room. He finally laid his forehead on the porcelain rim, feeling the cool seep into his burning skin. _This sucks ass._

"_Ah Sammy. Such a lightweight." _Dean's voice comforted him, and the ache in Sam's body began to ease.

Sam painted a devil's trap on the floor and gathered summoning herbs he'd bought into a bowl. He barely felt it when he sliced across his palm with his silver butterfly knife. The cut was deep, deeper than it needed to be, and Sam watched as his blood oozed out and dripped onto the herbs. When he dropped a lighted matchbook onto the blood-soaked herbs, he chanted a summoning ritual, and the flames leaped high, casting an orange glow over the room.

"Moose?" Crowley shoved his hands into the pockets of his expensive wool coat. "Whatever can I do for you?" His brows rose and he gave Sam a caustic smile. "No wait. The real issue is . . . whatever could you possibly do for me? I already know what you want. The problem is, you have nothing to bargain with."

"What did you do with him?" Sam asked.

"The prophet?" Crowley paced within the circle of the devil's trap. "I have him. In fact, he's buried so deep in my world that no one will find him. You can't get to him, and any hope Heaven had of getting the prophet died with that half-wit Castiel."

"Keep the prophet." Sam almost choked on the words. It was wrong; in his heart he knew it was wrong, but he didn't care. "Where's Dean?"

"Dean's gone, you gigantic buffoon. We've been through this already. Don't you get it? You're the only one left. You're on your own, alone. It's the Titanic, and you're the sole survivor."

"Take me in his place, and let him go," Sam pleaded.

"That's not going to happen, Sam. You tried that deal before."

"Then take me too. Take me to Dean."

Crowley studied Sam's face. "You want me to take you to Hell? Nothing in exchange? Just so you can be with your brother?"

"Yes. Take me to Dean." Sam latched onto the possibility, the sliver of hope he thought he saw in Crowley's questions. If he could just get to Dean, they could figure it out. At least, he wouldn't be alone—left behind.

"You Winchesters really are priceless. And predictable, I might add."

Crowley's smug face made Sam want to rage in anger, but he wanted Crowley's help. He needed Crowley's help. There was no one else left to turn to, so Sam swallowed his anger, keeping his face impassive.

"As tempting as it is to grind your soul into the lowest part of Hell, I have to be honest, Sam. Dean's not in Hell."

"Where is he, then?" Sam watched as Crowley seemed to consider the question.

"Not really my concern. I have what I want." Crowley raised his hand and then hesitated. "Think about it, Sam. He's not in Hell. He's not on Earth. Where else could he be? Now, you'll have to excuse me because," he gestured to himself, "King of Hell, you moron. You need more than a simple devil's trap to hold me." He stretched his fingers over the painted lines, melting them away into nothing. "I know. Didn't know I could do that. Bit of a learning curve for both of us." Crowley smiled, and it almost seemed genuinely sympathetic.

There was nothing in Sioux Falls, no reason to be here. Maybe it was force of habit that had brought Sam back to Singer Salvage. Maybe he just had nowhere else to go. He rambled through the burned out remains of the house. Whatever was salvageable after the fire had long ago been retrieved by Bobby and was in Rufus's cabin.

Sam wandered through the yard and the outbuildings. What was left of Bobby's tools, he packed in the trunk of the Impala. Then, he sorted through everything he'd packed in the car one last time. Sioux Falls was a pit stop. There was nothing left for him here, and the only other place he knew Dean would look for him was Rufus's cabin. But the cabin was small and already pretty full of books, tools and equipment that Sam, Bobby and Dean had stashed away. He picked carefully what was useful enough to go and what would be left behind.

Sam gazed out the rear view mirror, watching that part of his life fade into the past as he drove away. Something in him broke just a little more, a bigger crack leaking out more of his soul.

…...

He drove straight through from Sioux Falls to Whitefish, Montana; twenty hours on the road with stops for fuel and bathroom breaks, living on bottled water and protein bars. When he rolled into town, he ate at a nice, upscale restaurant. He was road weary, dirty and had two weeks of unkempt scruff on his face. He hadn't showered since sometime the day before yesterday, and he didn't care. The looks and sniffs he got didn't faze him.

When he was seated, away in a far corner, he ordered a salad for himself and a burger and fries for Dean, just like he'd done a dozen times over the past two weeks, and he left Dean's meal untouched, just like always. He knew one day he would order this same meal, and Dean would be there to enjoy the burger Sam ordered for him. He didn't refuse when the waiter offered to box Dean's meal for takeout, but he left it on the table. He always left it on the table, boxed or not.

Once he had eaten, he stopped for supplies and headed up the back road that led to Rufus's cabin. Making his way through wilderness and small villages, campgrounds and resort lodges, past Lake Five and Half Moon Lake, through West Glacier and finally winding along Lake McDonald on Going-to-the-Sun Road, he finally turned onto a nameless road that was little more than a narrow dirt path big enough for one vehicle. There were only two cabins at Fish Lake, and of the several times Sam and Dean had driven to the cabin, they'd never met another vehicle.

An hour northeast of Whitefish, Sam felt as if he was headed to the only place on earth left for him. "_The last homely house," _Tolkien's words wandered through Sam's mind. His mouth curled in a small bitter smile. If only it were so. If only such a place waited for him, a place like the wonderful home of Elron in Rivendell that Tolkien created in his writings, a place of beauty where weary warriors could be safe, rest, eat and receive guidance from wise elves and wizards. But it was not so. Not in the real world.

In the real world, Rufus's cabin was rough and small. Far from civilization, it had few homey attributes. It was a simple structure with a couple of electrical outlets that were enough to power a small refrigerator, a computer, and a lamp, but not all at the same time. There was plumbing—a sink in the kitchen area and a small bathroom, but no hot water heater. It would be cold when winter came. The only source of heat was an ancient woodstove, which was also the only means of cooking.

The cabin was hardly homey. Still, it was the place Dean would know to find Sam, and deep in his soul, Sam knew it—could feel it. Dean would come to the cabin. Sam had no idea how right he was.

_**TBC**_


	2. Into the Deep

_Thanks to Sam's Folly for beta'ing. _

…_..._

_**Soul Survivor**_

_**Chapter Two – Into the Deep**_

…...

_Cut off the head and the body will founder._

That was the grand plan. Sam couldn't remember whose plan it was, but it was working. He was foundering. He knew it, but he couldn't stop it. Sam was all there was left of the body, and he was sinking deeper and deeper, day by day.

It started because he couldn't let Dean go, even though he was already gone. It seemed easier to just pretend and give in to the inane gestures that helped him create his bubble of unreal. He carried Dean's duffel with him, unpacked Dean's clothes and stored them away. Sometimes he'd wear Dean's shirts or use Dean's shampoo and soap so he could feel Dean was near and smell the scent of Dean. He cleaned Dean's gun, even though it hadn't been used since . . .

He talked to Dean, discussing research as he found things and mostly apologizing when nothing connected, when nothing led him any closer to figuring out what had happened. At first, Dean was pensive, even comforting. _"It's okay, Sammy. If anyone can figure this out, you can. You're the one with the big brain." _

In time, Dean became demanding and critical, reminding Sam of just how useless he really was. _"You're the one I depended on the most, Sam, and you let me d__own—again." _His threats and criticisms hung over Sam like a cloud. Sam had failed him, and he desperately needed to find a way to fix this, find a way to win Dean's approval.

It wasn't just Dean. It was Bobby, too. Sam imagined that it was Bobby who picked out which books he should reference. Sam could hear Bobby's voice directing him to put one book down and pick up another with a softly muttered _"idjit." _

Sam kept a bottle of Jack at hand. Most often, he would just smell it, and although he'd quit shaving, he would open the bottle of Old Spice he kept just to have the familiar, comforting scent fill the air and blend with the smell of whiskey. It smelled like Bobby's house—like home.

Sometimes Bobby was morose. _"When it's your time to go, go__,__" _he would remind Sam. _"I'll be here, on the other side."_

Once, Sam got up the nerve to ask, "Is Dean with you?"—even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Bobby didn't answer, and Sam didn't hear him again for a couple of days. He guessed that the answer was no, and maybe Bobby was mad that he'd asked. Sam never asked again.

Some part of Sam knew this wasn't healthy. Lucifer had done the same thing—gotten inside his head—and that didn't end well, but Dean was his brother and Bobby was like a father to him. They wouldn't hurt him, and he didn't want to let Dean go. He didn't want to be alone, so he lived with Dean and Bobby, along with his fear and guilt, up on the mountainside in Rufus's cabin, and he closed out the rest of the world.

* * *

"_Rise and Shine, Sammy!"_

Sam opened his eyes to bright sunshine falling across his face. He rubbed his stinging eyes with the backs of his hands and groaned. The lumpy old sofa didn't do much good for his aching body, but more often than not, that's where he finally fell asleep each night. He worked every day—all day—until he could no longer focus on his research, could no longer stay awake.

"_Come on. Chop, chop,"_ said Dean's mocking voice.

Sam swung his feet to the floor and pulled his body up. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, he stretched and yawned deeply. His eyes fell to his bony feet. They looked like someone else's feet. He stretched his hands out and gazed at the long thin—too thin—fingers. And God! He was hungry. He pulled his hands back, clawing at his stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

He stumbled to the kitchen and pulled out a can of soup, popped the top and drank from the can, barely chewing the lumps of whatever kind of soup it was. Vegetable, maybe? He vaguely registered the taste of what he thought might be a carrot and some peas. Half a can in, a few mouthfuls seemed to quiet the gnawing in his gut, and he grabbed a bottle of water. He downed it quickly, gulp after gulp, until it was empty.

"_This can't be good, man. I don't see a thing in this mess that makes any kind of sense. What the hell are you doing?" _

"Dean, I . . ." Sam's eyes skimmed across the cans of half-eaten soup or beans. There were even a couple of cans of Spam, the dried, uneaten parts crusted over. His face twisted into a grimace. No wonder Dean was angry. Dean would never have tolerated this mess, and when their dad saw filth like this—well, John Winchester never saw this. He never allowed his boys to let things get like this.

Sam dropped his head. His stomach churned with disgust and self-loathing. Three weeks. That's how long he'd been at the cabin, but it wasn't like he was always this bad.

Sometimes his father drove him through the cabin. _"Time to GI this place, boy."_ John's gruff voice was strangely comforting. Sam had always hated it when John barked orders at him and Dean, as if they were little soldiers, but now he wanted—needed—someone holding him accountable. _"Put some elbow grease behind it," _John would remind Sam, as Sam scrubbed the cabin free of crusted bits of spilled food, muddy footprints and dirty clothes, horrified at how he'd let things get so bad.

Sam didn't mind it when John drove him or Dean pushed him. He didn't mind when Bobby was morose. It was better than being alone.

"_Not that crap." _Dean's voice was demanding, irritated. _"The crap on the wall."_

Sam turned to face the situation wall he'd been working on. Four weeks since this nightmare started. Four weeks he'd gathered data, and three weeks he'd been pinning newspaper clippings, pictures, diagrams and notes across the huge map hanging on the wall. Colorful lengths of thread connected and reconnected the points in a bizarre web-like pattern. Everywhere they'd been—every place anything related to the Leviathan's had happened—was pinned, a hopeless puzzle Sam added to and labored over every day.

"_This is the most important job you've ever had, and it's a mess," _Dean's voice rasped._ "What the hell happened to you, Sam? You always figured out this stuff. You're the brains of this operation. Figure it out!"_

Sam stared at the wall, willing something to pop out at him, some clue. There was nothing.

"_Crap! This is crap! You got bupkis, and you know it."_

Sam's heart fell. "Dean, I—"

"_And this place is a frickin' mess! This isn't like you, Sammy."_

"I know, Dean. I—"

Someone was outside. Sam heard it clearly, the rustling of leaves, footfalls—heavy footfalls. Someone was spying. It wasn't the first time he thought he heard something, but this time he was sure.

Dean's voice hissed, "_Take my gun, Sammy. It's loaded. It's there, on the table. Whatever it is—whoever it is—get rid of it!"_

* * *

Whitefish, Montana sat in the middle of a broad, flat valley surrounded by the peaks of the Northern Rockies. It was a close-knit community, a pretty village surrounded by forests, ski slopes, lakes and rivers. Kaya Richards grew up in Whitefish. She knew the town and the surrounding country very well. It was, after all, her country.

Kaya was one of a handful of rangers who patrolled the forest of the Northern Rockies. It was a monumental task. Among her other duties, she made rounds through the isolated cabins scattered through the vast forest to make sure no one was in trouble or causing trouble for the wildlife. Some of the cabins were old relics from another age, originally built by mountain men a hundred and fifty years ago. They were kept up and used for hunting, fishing and vacation trips by a few sporting souls who still sought solitude and the beauty of a bygone era, living closer to nature.

There was something exceptionally clean about the smell of the drier air of autumn. It was crisp; trees glowed in bright yellows, oranges and reds. It was her favorite time of year, and Kaya always felt an excitement stirring deep in her soul. Maybe it was the feeling of expectation, the last-minute rush of hurried preparation before Mother Earth would be buried deep in the quiet, still beauty of winter.

Kaya parked her truck and trailer at Lake McDonald Lodge and saddled her quarter horse, a seventeen-hand-high light bay named Penny, whose coat glowed like new copper. It was an all-day trek along a narrow dirt road to check the two old cabins at Fish Lake, but this was part of the job Kaya loved, a chance to trail ride in the wilderness and touch base with the men who owned the cabins.

She understood the men who came out here, far away from civilization. She enjoyed the solitude of her trek through the forest, just like they enjoyed escaping to this peaceful place where they left behind the noises of civilization—the sounds that weren't noticeable until they were gone—the sounds the human brain learned to tune out. In the vast forest that crawled through the valley and up the mountainside, there was no steady hum of traffic or people, no collective background sound of thousands of electrical conveniences blanketing the land in white noise. There was just nature and her soothing quietness—the distant calls of birds, the rustle of leaves, the steady plod of hooves, and the tight squeak of leather as Kaya shifted in her saddle, pushing Penny up along the path.

Albert was a gentle soul. He was seventy, if he was a day, but healthy as an ox. He still chopped his own wood. He'd been spending his summers at his cabin for longer than Kaya had known him. Alone, for the most part, he went into town occasionally to stock up on supplies. For years he'd spent the summers at the cabin with his wife and children. Then, as his children grew up and married, it was just his wife and himself. His wife had been dead for the last fifteen years, but he still spent the summers and sometimes even the winters in the wilderness cabin they'd loved so much. He'd told Kaya it made him feel close to his wife. He said she visited him sometimes. Souls didn't mind visiting such a peaceful place. Today, however, he was packing up to head back to his home in Missoula for the winter.

"The cold in this old cabin is just too hard on my aching bones anymore," he complained. "Here," he said, motioning toward the rail of his tiny front porch. "You tie Penny and come on in for some coffee. I got a warm fire and I'm sure you're cold, riding all the way up here on that horse."

"I could use some coffee," she said, smiling at the wrinkled old face of her friend. "Warm fire sounds nice too."

"Good. I made scones this morning. Had a feeling you might be by."

Kaya dismounted and tied Penny to the rail. She stroked the white blaze on the horse's face, then followed Albert into the house. "You know how much I love your scones. I think it's the old wood cookstove that makes them so good. How you make them so perfect in that old relic is a mystery to me."

Albert smiled at the praise, and they rocked in rocking chairs by the warm stove and talked for an hour.

After she said good bye to Albert with a promise to check in on him when he came back to his cabin next summer, she made her way along the narrow road to the cabin across the lake. She hadn't seen Rufus in the past few years, but she'd seen signs that someone had been at the cabin the last couple of times she'd checked, so she assumed she'd just missed him. _A shame,_ she thought. Rufus was a bit gruff around the edges, but she liked his wry sense of humor and enjoyed bantering with him. He had the strangest stories to tell.

She spotted it the moment she rounded the last curve in the road that led to the last cabin in this wilderness. Apparently, Rufus had picked up a new ride. Well, not new, but it was pretty—a vintage muscle car. She rode Penny alongside and then in front of the car, admiring its excellent condition. Not a spot of rust on it. There was a fine coat of dust from the dirt road, but the car was polished to a high shine beneath that dusting.

It wasn't Rufus who stepped out of the cabin door but a much younger man. He carefully closed the door behind him and stood watching—assessing—her.

Kaya smiled, hoping to put the man at ease, and said, "Nice car."

He was tall, nearly reaching the height of the door. Pale thin feet peeked out from the ragged hem of his faded jeans. He was wearing a thin hoodie more suited to cool summer nights than the brisk chill of autumn in the mountains. He seemed oblivious to the cold, not wearing a shirt beneath the baggy jacket. His shoulders were broad, his clothing hanging on his long, thin—too thin—frame.

"Thanks." He gestured toward the car. "My brother's."

His hair was long and hung limp and dirty past his shoulders. It was hard to get a real idea of his face because it was covered with a ragged beard, at least a month of unkempt growth. He had soulful eyes that caught her, held her, and seemed to beg her. For what, she wasn't sure.

"I'm Ranger Richards, but call me Kaya." She reached down, patting her horse as she eased forward. "This is Penny."

She knew it was there by the pull of his mustache and the hint of dimples beneath all the dark hair, but his tentative smile disappeared quickly. "Sam," he answered.

"I see you've got plenty of wood, Sam." She eyed the large stack of wood piled next to the porch. "Didn't notice any smoke." She pointed toward the chimney.

"I . . ." As if he suddenly realized he was cold, he pulled the thin jacket closer to him. "I just woke up. I didn't realize the fire was out."

"You'll definitely need a fire tonight. Cold front coming through. Most likely get snow. If not tonight, at least by the weekend. Are you staying here long?"

"I'll be here for a while."

"Is Rufus with you?"

"Rufus died," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Not quite two years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She felt a pang of regret. She'd liked Rufus. She would miss him. "Are you family?"

"Sort of." His voice became tainted with a touch of bitterness. "I'm the only one left."

It struck her as an odd remark, but then he struck her as a bit odd. He wasn't rude exactly, just standoffish. Something about this man didn't quite fit, but folks didn't come to wild, lonely places because they wanted to be social. He didn't seem like a wilderness kind of guy. Her instincts told her he wasn't here for the beauty or the solitude. He was uncomfortable here. He was running, hiding from something.

"Well, Sam, you take care. Make sure you get a fire built." She pulled a card out of her pocket, and easing Penny closer to the porch, she held it out for Sam to take. If you need anything, there's a number you can call. You have a cell?"

"Yes." He took the card. "Thank you."

"Reception's a little sketchy out here, but you should be able to text." She eased Penny back and turned her toward the road. Calling over her shoulder, Kaya said, "I'll be by on occasion. It's part of my job to check on folks." She didn't need or expect and answer and she didn't get one. As she rounded the curve in the road that would take her out of sight, she glanced back and saw him still standing, watching.

He didn't belong here, of that she was certain, but that wasn't her concern. Was he here legally? That was her concern. It was easy enough to find out. If Rufus was indeed dead, the legal ownership of the property he left behind, including the cabin, would be traceable.

* * *

It was stone cold in the cabin when Sam woke. Clouds of white vapor poured from his mouth as he huffed and shivered, rubbing his arms and then squeezing his hands in his arm-pits. He was stiff, and his body screamed in protest as he raised up from the lumpy old sofa, walking on numb bare feet to the wood stove. He built a small fire before he went in search of socks.

There were no clean socks. There were no clean clothes. He'd spent yesterday cleaning the cabin, not even stopping to eat, while John Winchester stressed the dangers of germs and infection and the importance of keeping things sanitary, until Sam finally passed out on the sofa. His father's last words of the night still echoed in Sam's brain, and he stood in the cold bathroom on his still-numb, still-bare feet and looked at himself in the mirror. Dad was right. He was a disgrace—again. He hadn't bathed in three days, and he was still in the same filthy clothes.

He didn't bother to heat water. He stripped down and washed his body, finally plunging his head into a tub of frigid water. His body nearly locked up, his muscles frozen from the powerful shock of the cold, but he forced his hands to move as he lathered and rinsed his hair. After finding the least offensive clothes he could, he spent an hour huddled by the meager fire in the wood stove, letting the warmth sink in.

Now that he was warm and had a steady hand he returned to the bathroom with a razor, soap, scissors, and a toothbrush. When he was finished, he peered into the mirror at the smooth face and clean smile he'd not seen in a month. It was time to go to town.

* * *

The smells that floated over from the diner next to the laundromat made Sam's mouth water and his stomach roll. A month had passed since he'd been up at the cabin, a month since he'd eaten anything that wasn't cold out of a can, and a month since he'd seen another person other than the ranger who'd come by last week.

He was so weak his hands shook as he delved into the big industrial dryer, retrieving clean dry clothes, warmth seeping into his hands and arms, and when he changed clothes in the bathroom, he sighed at the feel of the warm jeans and shirt against his body.

Life in the cabin, alone with the mostly disapproving Dean, Bobby and John, had become harsh. Sam never lived up to their expectations. He was always a failure, always a disappointment. He slept too much. He should be spending his time researching, finding his brother. He was messy—filthy, actually. Worst of all, he was the one left alive. He was the one left to fix this, and he was a failure. It should have been Dean. Dean should be here. Dean would have found a way. Sam was the one that should be—.

"Sam?"

Her voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to reality, and he quickly tossed the last duffel of clean clothes into the Impala's trunk, slamming it shut.

"Nice to see you in town." Kaya, the ranger, stood on the sidewalk in front of the Impala, gazing at him so intently Sam's nerves started to fray and he had to look away. What could she possibly be thinking? Had she figured out how useless he was?

"I recognized the car." Her smile was friendly, genuine. No one had smiled at him in months. "You look a bit different." She rubbed her fingers over her chin, and her smile became even brighter. "I like the clean-shaven look on you."

"Thanks." He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted on his feet. "I ran out of clean clothes. Needed the laundromat"—he walked slowly toward her—"and supplies." His stomach rumbled, and he huffed out an embarrassed little laugh. "I was headed to the diner for lunch. I'm not much of a cook, and I was craving something fresh and hot."

"Mind if I join you? I was about to go for lunch myself."

"Yeah, sure." They walked together to the diner. He held the door as she entered, wondering what he would possibly have to say to her. It had been so long since he'd had a conversation with a pretty girl—a normal, human girl. Becky, maybe, but she could hardly be considered normal. She'd cast a love spell on him, tricked him into marrying her and tied him to a bed. God, his life was messed up. What on earth did normal people talk about?

Sam stared at the menu. The wonderful smells of the food once again reminded him just how hungry he was. He laid the menu on the table in front of him and pushed his hands under his thighs, hoping to hide the shaking.

"See anything you like?" Kaya looked genuinely concerned and motioned for the waitress to come, asking her to bring some rolls and water right away. "You don't look so good, Sam."

"Just hungry." Something desperate escaped his lips, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Really, really hungry."

"You run out of food at the cabin?"

He looked into her eyes. She had no idea. "No, he answered. "I . . . I got wrapped up in my work. I forgot . . . I think."

"Here." She shoved a roll at him. "Eat this."

There was no way she could miss the tremor of his hand as he took the roll from her, no way she could possibly miss what a mess he was.

He ordered a salad because his body was screaming for the fresh, crisp green of it. Then he ate barbeque brisket, mashed potatoes with lots of sweet, creamy butter and broccoli covered in cheese sauce. Thankful he didn't have to do much talking, he listened as Kaya told him all about Whitefish. She was obviously very proud of her hometown and had lots of ideas of things he needed to see and do.

The hearty meal made Sam feel better. His body responded to the nourishment. His muscles no longer trembled. He lost the desperate feeling and the gnawing unease in his soul. "That was great." He sighed in satisfaction, laying his knife and fork across his empty plate. Looking down at the clean surface, he realized he'd all but licked it clean, using a fifth roll to gather all the tiniest crumbs and juices. He was embarrassed and wondered what she must think of him. The heat of a blush crept up his neck and across his face as he gazed at her. "I was hungrier than I thought."

"I see." She smiled at him, not for the first time, but Sam's mind was clearer than it had been in weeks. Warm and nourished, he'd had a few hours without the self-loathing and guilt he felt at the cabin, surrounded by constant reminders of his failure and the constant reminder that it should have been Dean who survived, not him. Sam looked at Kaya and really saw her for the first time.

She was stunning. Her hair was long, full, straight and shining black. She wore it parted in the middle and braided on either side of her head. Her eyes were liquid-soft and dark brown with a slight almond shape and dark, full lashes. Her creamy complexion was like caramel. When she smiled, as she was doing now, not just her mouth, but her whole face shone.

Sam could feel his face flush even redder. "Sorry. I must look like such a pig."

"Not at all," she laughed. "Well, maybe a little, but you're a big guy. I'm guessing you need a lot of food. You know what? I need coffee and some pie. You like pie?"

"I could go for pie," he laughed in return. "I still have a little room."

After they ordered the desserts, Kaya cleared her throat and took a sip of her coffee. "You know, Sam, I checked on the ownership of the cabin, Rufus's cabin. It's part of my job. We can't have squatters staying in cabins that don't belong to them or that they haven't rented."

"And what did you find out?" Sam took a bite of the cherry pie that had tasted so good just a mouthful ago.

"It's a bit twisted, but apparently Rufus willed the cabin to a friend by the name of Bobby Singer."

Sam had no idea Bobby had inherited the cabin. He tried to keep the raw pain he felt at the mention of Bobby's name from showing on his face. "Bobby's dead."

"I know, and he left everything, including the cabin, to Dean Winchester."

"Dean's my brother." Sam nearly choked on the words. It wounded his soul more than he could say that Bobby had thought of Dean but not him. Why? Was Sam so totally worthless? Had Bobby never forgiven him for what he did when he was soulless? "I have to go." He stood and pulled out his wallet, throwing cash on the table, his hands once again trembling.

"Sam, wait," Kaya pleaded.

She didn't know. She couldn't know, but Sam couldn't stay. He couldn't pretend. He was foundering. He was worthless, useless—even Bobby thought so.

Kaya grabbed his wrist. He paused, but he desperately needed to get away from her, away from here and back to the cabin.

"Where is your brother, Sam?"

He felt the sting of tears behind his tightly closed eyes. A snarling whisper was the best he could give her. "I lost my brother five weeks ago. Everything is mine. I'm the only one left."

* * *

Well, that threw a whole new light on the landscape. Kaya watched as Sam strode out of the door. She finished her coffee as she watched the shiny black car slide past the big picture window of the diner and stop at the corner. She thought she saw Sam's head bow and rest on the steering wheel, the left blinker flashing its rhythmic glow as he waited for the stoplight to change to green. Her eyes never left the car or the man in it as he made his left turn and drove out of sight.

Something wasn't right here. She needed to get to the bottom of this mystery that was Sam Winchester.

_**TBC**_


	3. I Remember Everything

_Thanks to all those who are following this story and me as an author. Special thanks to those who have favorited Soul Survivor. _

_It's always wonderful to receive comments, and to the guests who left comments, I can't message you back personally, so I'll thank you here._

_Special thanks to Sam's Folly for her wonderful beta'ing skills._

…_**...**_

_**Soul Survivor**_

_**Chapter Three – I Remember Everything**_

…_**...**_

_In my heart, I know I failed you, but you left me here alone._

_If we could start again, would that have changed the end? _

_Remember Everything – Five Finger Death Punch_

…_..._

"_What did you expect, Sam?" _Dean's voice echoed in his head.

"Some recognition of my existence, maybe," answered Sam. His hands clenched into tight fists as he paced the floor of the small cabin. "Bobby was like a father to me." His voice broke and he swallowed hard against the painful lump in his throat.

"_You tried to kill him. If I hadn't—"_

"Dean, I know. I know. I know." Sam slumped down onto the couch. "God, help me. If I could just—"

"_Well, you can't. Besides it doesn't matter. You're the only one left. It's all yours now anyway."_

"It's not that, Dean. It's not about the stuff." Sam heaved a wet sigh, his eyes filling with tears. "It's just . . ." The words seemed to tear through him, ripping his soul with the realization of things he hadn't dared to consider. "He never forgave me. It hurts to know Bobby never forgave me. I thought—"

"_You thought what? You nearly slit his throat, Sam. You can't blame him."_

Sam couldn't blame Bobby, but he'd believed they had gotten past it. Sam couldn't remember trying to kill Bobby, and he knew he hadn't really been himself. After all, he'd been yanked out of Hell without a soul. It wasn't his fault, but he remembered the way Bobby acted so skittish around him—couldn't stand to be in the same room with him, couldn't hold a conversation with him. The memory pierced through Sam's soul like a sword.

Bobby'd had every reason to hold a grudge, but they'd found peace between them and Bobby had been himself around Sam once again. Sam knew this. On some level, he knew Bobby had still loved him and that all had been forgiven when Bobby died, but Sam's mind was clouded with grief and guilt. Bobby's death had been hard for him, and losing Dean so soon after Bobby's death devastated him. Now, faced with the fact that Bobby left everything he had to Dean—only Dean—with no mention of Sam, it seemed that Sam had not been forgiven after all, and it hurt. It was a deep wound, another broken part of him that would never heal—another gash from a brutal master left open and bleeding. The Winchester curse was a cruel fate.

Sam cried, and he didn't bother to wipe away the tears that trailed down his face. There was no one to see. There was no one to care. He stopped his pacing to stand and stare unseeing out the window.

"It's my fault," he said, finally swiping at his tears with the back of his hand. "I fucked up. I fucked everything up. If I could go back—if I could just go back, I would do it differently. I would hunt. I would be glad to be part of the Family Business. I wouldn't leave. I wouldn't go to Stanford. I would stay with family."

"_Yeah, right."_

"I would, Dean. If I could just go back. I would be a better son to Bobby and Dad." Sam began to pace again. "I was too wrapped up in myself—in what I wanted. I was selfish. I could be better."

"_Sammy." _Dean's voice was soft. Sam knew that tone. His brother was trying to comfort him, but he didn't want to be comforted. He was on a roll. He knew how he could fix this whole horrible mess.

"We could hunt together again. I would stay with you and . . . and . . ." Sam grabbed desperately at anything he could think of. "None of this would have happened." He growled and balled his fists. "I would kill that son of a bitch Jake. If I'd killed him when I had the chance—God, why did I let him live? If I'd killed him, you wouldn't have made that deal. You wouldn't have gone to Hell. It's my fault.

"I wouldn't trust Ruby like I did, either. You knew. You were right. I would listen to you. God, I could make it right. I can fix this."

"_You can't go back, Sammy," _Dean's voice pleaded softly.

"I did it before." Sam gulped in a watery sob. "Please, God. I would do anything . . . anything. Just send me back. Let me have my family back." Once again, he stopped his pacing at the small window by the front door. Snow was falling in big flakes, white against the green of pines and fir and the golden yellow and orange of ash and poplar. He stared blankly, noticing none of the beauty or the rapidly dropping temperature.

"God?" he whispered reverently. "You can send me back. Gabriel did. You have more power than an archangel. You can do anything." He turned away from the window, gazing at the cold dark interior of the small cabin—the prison he'd made for his aching soul. "God, have mercy. We did everything. We took everything you threw at us, over and over. We fixed the messes the demons made. We fixed the mess your angels made, over and over. Fix this," Sam demanded. "Give me back my brother." He raised his voice and shouted like a petulant child. "I miss Bobby. I need Dean. I want my family." His voice fell to a whisper. "Please."

There was no answer from God. Dean was gone. The silent cabin-prison closed in around Sam like a dark fist, squeezing the life out of him. What did it matter? This was no life. Sam dropped to his knees, his body slowly drifting to the floor until his face rested on its cold surface. He couldn't get any lower. "I can't do this alone," Sam whispered to God. His breath fogged in the frigid air, condensing wet droplets on the floor. "I need help. Help me, please," Sam pleaded.

* * *

"_You always were one deep little son of a bitch. You over think things." _

"_Bobby?"_

"_You're too hard on yourself. Hell, we were all too hard on you."_

_Sam floated in darkness—weightless and cradled into it like velvet—smooth and warm and black._

"_It's not what you think, Sam. You boys—you were my sons, my family. I knew you boys better than John did. Hell, I knew you better than you knew yourselves. What belongs to one, belongs to both. All you've been through? Ain't nothing on earth gonna separate you two."_

_Nothing on earth . . ._

_The blackness gave way and Sam found himself surrounded by something much darker than blackness. It was cold and evil, and he could feel it sucking the life out of him. _

_He didn't recognize this place. It was gray and lifeless. The sterile ground puffed up little dust clouds around his feet as he ran through tall, naked, dark trees. There was no sun. There was no color. He didn't feel anything, but eyes were watching him, and he was afraid. They followed him, the cold and evil things, pulling his life from him._

_He was searching—running after something. He needed to find something . . . someone._

"_Sammy?"_

_It was Dean. He needed to find Dean. He ran toward Dean's voice._

"_Sammy!"_

"_I can't find you, Dean!"_

_Sam ran through the gray forest of dead trees, following Dean. Dean kept ducking and weaving and disappearing among the trees—always just a glimpse and then gone, always just slipping out of sight._

_Sam's legs ached as he pushed them harder. He didn't understand. With his long legs, he'd always been able to outrun Dean, but the faster he ran toward his brother, the more distant he became. His legs were stiff, and he fought hard to make them move. It was like running through deep water. His legs ached until they faded away and were gone._

_Sam floated in darkness—weightless and cradled into it like velvet—smooth and cold and black._

_Nothing on earth . . ._

_Only death . . . _

_Death will separate you._

_Suddenly, Sam fell, hitting the ground with a thud. He could see his hand stretched away from him, reaching out. Beyond his hand, he saw a door, and behind it, a thin sliver of light that grew brighter as the door slowly opened._

"_Bobby?"_

"_When it's your time—go."_

* * *

She could think of better ways to spend her day off, but something about Sam Winchester was unsettling, and Kaya had always been a sucker for a mystery, not to mention a hard-luck case. Sam was both. He was absolutely broken, and she'd bet a dollar to a doughnut it was grief. In fact, if her instincts didn't fail her, there was probably a healthy bit of guilt piled up on top of that grief.

Kaya's research to find out whether or not Sam had a right to be in the cabin had uncovered a string of deaths. Rufus died eighteen months ago, Bobby Singer's death was eight months ago, and Sam said he'd lost his brother just weeks ago. That was a heap of tragedy in a short span of time. It would be difficult for anyone to deal with, and Kaya was pretty sure Sam wasn't dealing with his losses very well.

She left at the first light of day in the midst of a thick, low-lying fog. Combined with the gray sky and an early dusting of snow, the visibility was not good, and that made for slow going. It was a two-hour drive to the remote cabin, but she figured the two-hour trip would be closer to three. She expected the snow to get thicker as she moved out of the valley and out of the fog to higher elevations. She wasn't wrong.

It seemed the early season snow was unusually heavy up on the mountainside. Kaya would normally be enjoying the beauty of the white blanket over the mountains that dusted the evergreens and turned the landscape into a winter dreamscape, but somewhere along the twisting snake that was Going to the Sun Road, she began to question herself.

It wasn't any of her business. Sam had a right to be at the cabin. Apparently, as his brother's next of kin, he'd inherited all his brother's belongings, including the cabin. He wasn't squatting. He wasn't breaking any laws. He had a right to his privacy. He might even consider her unexpected, unofficial visit an invasion of privacy. He had a right to be left alone.

It was an overwhelming sense of sympathy for him and the vivid memory of soulful eyes begging for something she didn't quite understand at the time that kept her moving up the mountain—deeper into the snowy forest. She couldn't shake the feeling that Sam's eyes—eyes that had grabbed her and held her when she first saw him—had been begging for help. They'd been begging not to be left alone.

As she drove along the edge of Lake McDonald, she pushed away the panicked feeling that rose from her gut. She was almost there. Drifts of new snow covered the last leg of her journey along the narrow road that led to the remote cabin.

She was glad she'd equipped her Jeep with snow tires early this year. Sam's car—not equipped with snow tires or chains—was useless in this snow. He was stranded and would have to make do with whatever provisions he had on hand.

As she rounded the last curve, the cabin came into view. The Impala sat in the midst of a snowbank. What was visible of its shiny black surface was dusted with snow and stood in deep contrast against the white landscape. Kaya barely noticed it as her eyes assessed the cabin.

"Damn it!" She maneuvered the Jeep as close to the front door of the cabin as she could get and slammed it into park, then released her seat belt and opened the door quickly. There was no smoke from the chimney, which meant there was no fire in the stove, and it was cold—killing cold.

"Sam?" Kaya beat on the door. "Sam? Sam!" Her hand gripped the doorknob and she thanked God that it was unlocked as she pushed the door open, peering into the dark interior.

"Sam?" She saw him lying prone on the floor, his long body spread out, his arms extended like the wings of a giant bird. "Oh, no. Sam?" She knelt next to his body and laid her fingers on his neck, searching for a pulse, then bent down to put her ear next to his mouth, listening and feeling for his breath. He had a slow pulse and was breathing, but he was cold and unconscious.

Kaya was young and didn't have years of experience to fall back on, but she was smart. She'd been raised to do this job and was trained in first aid. She knew immediately just how serious Sam's condition was. He was hypothermic and needed help. He needed a doctor. She had to get him warm, and she had to get him help—quickly.

She gently pulled his arms in close to his body, rolling him onto his side and tucking his knees up to preserve what little body heat he had left. She grabbed a blanket from the sofa and covered him. Clouds of vapor poured from her mouth into the cold air of the cabin as she huffed, trying desperately to keep herself calm.

She got a fire started in the woodstove and pulled out her cell phone. _No signal. Damn it! _She stepped out on the porch. One precious bar appeared on her phone. _Thank God. _She called for help. The connection was tenuous, but she managed to get through. Help was on the way.

When she went back into the cabin, she checked Sam again for pulse and respiration. He was alive, but he was still cold. She needed to get the room warm, so she put more wood on the fire, finally coaxing it into a roaring blaze. She put a pot of water on top of the stove to heat, then returned to check on Sam. She wanted to move him closer to the stove, but she didn't dare move him any more than she already had. Moving him ran the risk of circulating cold blood from his extremities to his core, dropping his temperature even more and possibly causing a heart attack.

Kaya found another blanket in the small bedroom and brought it with her as she returned to Sam. She put the second blanket over him and lay down next to him. Pressing her body as close to him as she could get, she wrapped herself around him, trying to give him the warmth of her body.

Precious heat began to seep into the room from the woodstove, and Kaya got up once to find empty water bottles and fill them with the heated water from the stove. She placed the warm bottles in Sam's armpits and his groin, then warmed herself by the stove before getting back under the covers to hug close to him again.

"Hang on, Sam," Kaya whispered. She wasn't sure how long it had been since she called, but she was sure the rescue squad from West Glacier should be there soon. She prayed it would be soon enough, and she held on to Sam's cold, limp body.

A short time later, she was shivering with both relief and worry as the EMTs loaded Sam into the back of the ambulance. He was cocooned in warm blankets covering his entire body, including his head and neck. The only parts of him not blanketed were his nose and mouth, which were covered by an oxygen mask.

"We'll take good care of him, Kaya," the big, burly EMT told her as he lifted the stretcher into the ambulance.

"I know, Mark."

Kaya knew both Mark and Jeff, the EMTs who had responded to her call. Although the tourists who visited the area were in the thousands, the population of Whitefish and the surrounding area was small, and most all the locals knew each other.

"I just hope he's not so cold he won't survive."

"Well, we're taking him down to North Valley." Mark slammed the doors to the back of the ambulance, closing Jeff in and hiding Sam from view. "We'll see what the doc says. You want to follow?"

"Yeah." Kaya could see Jeff moving about inside the ambulance, securing the stretcher, attaching Sam to the monitor and getting him ready for the ride to the hospital, while Mark made his way around to the driver's side door.

She was still shaking as she pulled out behind the ambulance and headed back down the mountain toward Whitefish and North Valley Hospital. _God Almighty, _she thought._ What if I hadn't come to check on him? _It was a frightening thought, and she swallowed down the panic she'd been fighting all day. She'd done all she could do. She should be able to calm down and let the professionals do their job.

* * *

Dr. Hanson was one of Kaya's favorite people. In addition to being an emergency physician, she owned Aspen Ridge Horse Farm. Dr. Hanson had started teaching Kaya to ride along with her own daughter, Harli, when both girls were five years old, and Kaya boarded her quarter horse, Penny, at Aspen Ridge.

"You did a good job." Dr. Hanson rubbed her hand gently along Kaya's arm as they sat side by side in the waiting room. "You kept him alive."

Kaya felt the tenseness drain from her body as Dr. Hanson watched her with sympathetic eyes and a knowing smile. Her emotions had been drawn tight all day, running from worry to anger to fear to relief, and now she felt empty. She didn't know what to do or what to feel. She was lost.

"Sam has every possibility of a full recovery. I'm very optimistic. We are warming him up slowly so as not to risk irritating his heart."

Kaya nodded understanding to Dr. Hanson's explanation.

"We'll take good care of him. You can call the nurse anytime for an update, but you should go home. Get some rest. Talk to your dad. You've been through a lot, and you need to debrief. Bill knows what it's like. He's had experience with this."

Kaya nodded again. She was tired, and Dr. Hanson was right. A good talk with her dad was just what she needed. He would know; he would understand. He was a Ranger, and it was his footsteps she'd followed all her life, right into her career in the Forrest Service. Her dad was the most important man in her life, and he always made her feel better.

* * *

Sam waited by the window of his hospital room. He was more than a little embarrassed. The memory of what had happened at the cabin was vague, but Dr. Hanson had explained to him about the hypothermia and how close he came to dying. She urged him to be more careful, said it wasn't safe for him to be at the cabin alone. He was obviously malnourished, and his body might not be able to survive another episode, even a mild one.

"Hi."

He turned to see Kaya standing in the doorway.

"You ready to go?"

He held up his hands and shrugged. "Yeah. All I got are the clothes on my back." The warmth of a flush crept up his neck. "I seem to be stranded."

"Well, the good news is, I'm here to give you a ride." She graced him with a smile, but she didn't come into the room. She leaned against the doorjamb and waited.

He huffed. "Okay. I'll bite. What's the bad news?"

"I'm not taking you back to the cabin. It isn't safe." Her words came out stiff, like she meant to say more but couldn't or wouldn't.

Sam stared at her, speechless. Dr. Hanson had said the same thing. _"__It isn't safe.__"_

"You think I can't take care of myself? What? I'm incompetent?" Sam wanted to be angry, but he felt as if the floor had fallen out from under him. Maybe they were right. How had he come to this?

He remembered only bits and pieces of his life since he'd lost Dean—since he'd been alone. He remembered being hungry. He knew he often forgot to eat until he was weak and trembling. He remembered being cold, and he knew he usually forgot to light a fire until his hands were numb and he couldn't feel his fingers.

What the hell? He was a hunter, for God's sake. He knew how to take care of himself. He wasn't stupid, but apparently he didn't have sense enough to light a fire in the fucking woodstove, in the middle of a fucking snow storm, in a flimsy little cabin miles away from civilization. He'd lost his edge.

He stumbled to the bed and lowered himself to sit on the side of it as the realization hit him. He talked—out loud—to the voices in his head. Other than this woman, who was not much more than a girl, and Dr. Hanson, the only people he'd talked to in weeks—almost two months—were dead.

Fear burst in Sam's chest, white-hot and as painful as if he'd been stabbed. _This is what it's like to go __insane. I'm going insane._

"Sam?"

He felt the bed dip beside him. It seemed she'd finally gotten the courage to come into the room. She was right to be afraid of him. He was a mess. Why should she put herself out to be nice to him? She didn't owe him anything. He didn't deserve anything. He was a disaster, caught in a downward spiral that would have ended if she hadn't come along at the right time.

"If you can take me to the cabin, I can get my things and my car." He stared at his hands, afraid he would see pity in her eyes. "I won't stay. I'll be gone in a couple of days."

"It's still snowing up there, and it was hard enough to get there yesterday." She stood and held out her hand for him. "Your body is still healing and needs rest. Most of all, you need to stay warm. That cabin leaks like a sieve." A tentative little laugh fell from her lips, and the small smile she gave him confused him.

Was she laughing at him? Sam stared at her face, trying to find the truth there. Was she just a good person being nice to him, or was there something darker driving her actions? He couldn't see the answer in her face, and he'd been fooled before.

"I have somewhere you can stay," she said.

Sam tensed. Confused, weak, hungry and tired beyond belief, he doubted his own instincts. "I don't think—"

"Dr. Hanson said you should rest"—she huffed pointedly—"and eat." She pulled on his hand, apparently impatient to be going.

His fogged brain groped desperately for what exactly about this woman made him uneasy, but he couldn't find the reason, and he followed her out the door and to her Jeep.

* * *

_Sam's long legs carried him swiftly through the lush green forest. The trees smelled of new life—tender-green, pungent and exciting. Deep breaths pulled the energy of living things into his soul—fresh and invigorating. He pushed his legs to run faster._

_He was searching—running after something. He needed to find something . . . someone._

_Her voice floated back to him in a laugh—a warm living sound pulling him forward. He wanted it—needed it—the life that floated around him, folding him into a warm embrace._

_Her voice urged him on._

_Bright sunshine warmed his face, played across his bare shoulders and down his back. He felt free—running in the wild—chasing her, wanting her, needing her. _

_Dark shinning black hair trailed behind her as she ran. Soft dark eyes urged him on. She tossed her head and laughed, disappearing into the thick forest. She rose on black raven wings, up through the trees and high above the forest. She circled slowly, her wings sparkling—iridescent in the sunlight._

"_She's poison. Look what she did to you." _

"_No, you're wrong, Dean. It's not her. It's not Ruby."_

_Color drained from the trees, their leaves fading away into nothingness, and the rotten stench of death filled Sam's breath and flowed into his soul, cold and lifeless._

"_You're lying to yourself, Sam. It's always Ruby or Meg or Lilith." _

_Sam ran on, following the crystal notes of her laughter and glimpses of her long flowing blond hair._

"_Jess?"_

"_I was dead the minute I met you," she said. Her voice was no longer laughing but mournful._

_Sam stopped running. His hands were trembling and cold against his face in the darkness._

"_You will always be chasing that life. You couldn't have it with me, and you will never find it with her."_

_Jess's face blurred behind Sam's tears until she disappeared onto the fog._

Air rushed into Sam's lungs in a deep gasp. His body jerked so hard he hit his head against the headboard. He was safe, snuggled down in a soft bed with warm blankets surrounding him. The faint trail of fear left his chest, along with the fast-fading memory of a dream.

Sam ran his hand across his face as he sat up on the side of the bed. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Eight-fifteen. The window was filled with bright sunlight, so he knew it was morning. He'd slept through the afternoon and evening, as well as the night.

He felt good. Hungry, but good and rested. He stood and stretched his muscles, remembering the afternoon before. He couldn't recall when he'd slept so well or felt so good.

And naked.

His hand drifted across his stomach. Naked?

His clothes had been washed and were folded neatly, lying on a chair waiting for him. He thought back to exactly what had happened. There had been food. Kaya had fed him beef stew. His mouth watered and his stomach rumbled, remembering the home-cooked meal. After that, he'd taken a hot shower. He closed his eyes, savoring the memory of the hot water flowing over his body, limitless and so relaxing. She'd led him to this bed, and he recalled snuggling down into the soft sheets, beneath the warm blankets, safe—and alone. He was pretty sure he was alone. He didn't remember not being alone.

He dressed quickly and stepped out to find the bathroom. That's when he heard music and smelled breakfast.

_Leaves are falling all around, _

_It's time I was on my way.  
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged _

_for such a pleasant stay.  
But now it's time for me to go. _

_The autumn moon lights my way.  
For now I smell the rain, _

_and with it pain, and it's headed my way.  
Sometimes I grow so tired, _

_but I know I've got one thing I got to do . . ._

The familiar sounds of Zep's _Ramble On_ flowed through Sam's mind. He'd heard it a million times, knew the words in his heart. It was one of Dean's favorite songs, and the sound of Robert Plant's voice, along with the guitar riffs of Jimmy Page, often filled the Impala. He could feel the rhythm of the music vibrating along the floor of the cottage and up through his feet, flowing through his body.

He ran his hand along his chin, gazing at himself in the bathroom mirror. He needed a shave, and Kaya had laid out shaving cream, a razor and bath cloth for him. This was too much. She was too nice to him, showing up at just the right time, always there to take care of him. She was either young and naive, and he would get her killed, or she was one of them, and she would use him for some evil plan. Either way, he had to get away from here. He had to get away from her. It would never work because it never worked for Sam Winchester.

_**TBC**_

…...


	4. Where Do I Begin?

_**Thanks to Sam's Folly for being such an awesome beta.**_

_**Many thanks for the comments and reviews. It is wonderful to hear from you. Your comments help to inspire me so much more than you know.**_

* * *

_**Soul Survivor**_

_**Chapter Four - Where Do I Begin?**_

_**... ... ...**_

_I'm learning to walk again. I believe I've waited long enough. Where do I begin?_

_"Walk" - Foo Fighters_

_... **... **..._

Kaya had been worried about him, but when Sam stepped into the kitchen, he looked better than the couple of times she'd seen him before. After being treated at the hospital for dehydration as well as hypothermia, he'd come home with her to a hearty meal, a hot shower and a good night's sleep. Not only did he look better, he looked younger.

His freshly shaved face was smooth. His long brown hair had highlights of gold and chestnut and framed his face in waves that ended in little curls around his neck. His eyes were clear and focused without the dark circles she'd thought might always be beneath them. He looked younger, but there was nothing boyish about Sam Winchester.

"There you are," she said. "How're you doing?"

"Walking and talking," he answered with a nervous laugh. He ducked his head, and a ruddy flush of color crept up the long column of his neck to his strong angular jaw and the high cheek bones of his heart-shaped face. Dimples appeared alongside his tentative smile.

"Well then, you can join me for breakfast." She turned off the radio and handed him a plate of fresh-cooked bacon, pointing toward the table. "Plates and mugs are in the cabinet." She gave an airy little laugh. "I guess you can figure out where everything is. Just look until you find what we need."

"I . . ." He hesitated, holding the plate of bacon and staring down at it as if he had no clue what it was.

"Sam?"

He picked at an imaginary stray crisp on the edge of the plate, obviously struggling with his thoughts. "Look, I'm grateful to you. You saved my life." He frowned and looked up at her. "I'm not sure why or how. I mean, how is it that you just happen to show up in the middle of a snowstorm, at the last possible moment, just in time to save me?" His one free hand emphatically punctuated every phrase. "Did you know something was going to happen?"

"What?" Kaya was stunned. It was as if a dark shadow had suddenly crept across his face, and he'd changed. She wasn't sure what he was getting at, but she was sure he was accusing her of something wrong.

He looked pointedly at her, the plate of bacon forgotten in his hand. "Did you _know_ something?"

She was being interrogated. The pure rudeness and the injustice of it fired her anger as much as it hurt her feelings. "I _knew_ a few things," she spat back at him. "I knew that there was a snowstorm coming because I keep up with the weather." She got a little bit of satisfaction when his hard face broke with the tiniest hint of confusion. "I also knew that you tend to forget to light your woodstove or let it go out, and I knew both of those habits could get you killed up on the mountainside in a snowstorm."

He looked down at the plate of bacon as if he'd suddenly discovered it there in his hand. The awkward silence stretched out between them until he finally turned his back and walked to the table. He laid the plate down and slowly splayed his hands out across the tablecloth, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. He seemed to be waiting, as if she owed him an explanation.

"I didn't _know_ you were in trouble. I had a feeling, and I went with it."

Whatever she'd thought might happen between them, the faint beginnings of interest she'd felt for him, died quickly in that moment, withering in her hurt and anger. Sam was unlike any of the guys she knew. All the guys she'd grown up with were wholesome, simple and fun. This man was too damaged—too complicated—and for some reason she couldn't fathom, he was suspicious of her.

She plowed on, justifying herself to his back, not sure he was even listening. "I knew I was overstepping a bit. Well, okay. I was kind of stalking, and I thought about that. Maybe I should have left you alone. You have a right to your privacy." She searched for the right words. "But I—"

"No. You were right." He finally turned to her. The hard darkness was gone from his face and he seemed remorseful. "You saved my life. I had no right to be . . . I don't know . . ." His hands flailed about nervously. ". . . suspicious of your motives. I'm sorry."

Once again, silence hung in the air between them.

"I should go." He turned toward the door and hesitated, his arms twitching, his eyes darting about as if he were looking for something.

"You don't even have a coat." She sighed, not understanding why it had to be this hard. "I'll give you a ride into town. Do you need some cash? I don't have much, but I can lend you enough to get a room and a coat."

He took the ride she offered but refused the cash, saying that he had a card and some money. When she pulled up at the motel, he mumbled another thank-you and got out of the car, but he never looked back as he stalked toward the lobby.

Kaya had never met anyone who stirred up the storm of confusion and misunderstandings that Sam did. She'd been nothing but kind to him. Hell, she'd saved his life, and yet he didn't trust her. But she couldn't for the life of her figure out what he thought she'd done. Make a snowstorm come up out of nowhere? Make him forget to light a fire? That was crazy.

Could he possibly think she had the power to know he'd been freezing to death before she saw him? It was common sense, not magic. And hell, even if it was magic that got her up the mountain in time to save his life, wouldn't that be a good thing?

It was unfair, this mistrust he had for her. He was wrong about her, and it hurt.

* * *

He was wrong. He'd screwed up again. Sam figured he'd been born with a real talent for that. The way he saw things right now, his whole life was one major screw up after another. Maybe it was all part of the curse Yellow Eyes laid on him when he was six months old. Maybe it was the way he grew up, the way he was raised. A dark pain stirred deep in Sam's gut. Between the angels, demons, Leviathan, Lucifer—Sam swallowed hard, blinking back tears—losing Dean, losing everybody, Sam couldn't think straight anymore. He knew Kaya didn't deserve the way he'd treated her, and he felt guilty for that. She was a good person, pure and simple, and in her goodness, she'd been kind to him, even saving his life.

But it didn't really matter. If she was pure and simple, then a relationship with him would get her hurt at best and more than likely would get her killed. Hell, everybody around him had died—everybody. He'd be doing her a favor to leave things as they were. It was better to hurt her feelings than cost her her life.

If that wasn't the case, if she wasn't just a good person, then she was a demon or some other supernatural creature that was setting him up for something that would end up messy at best—possibly end-of-the-world and bloody. His whole life, those were the only two choices. Normal wasn't possible for him, and not even "safe" seemed possible. Apple-pie and picket fences were never his destiny.

Sam opened the door and stepped into the small room. Gazing around, he decided the room was kind of nice. In fact, it was much nicer than most of the places where he'd spent his life, but a cheap motel room in a tourist town like Whitefish wasn't really cheap and wasn't as bare bones as he was used to. He dropped the bag of supplies on the table by the window and pulled off the warm coat he'd bought, hanging it on the back of a chair.

Sam figured he'd return to the cabin as soon as the storm passed and the road cleared enough. He would pack up the Impala and get back on the road. Rufus's cabin no longer seemed quite so safe. Apparently, Sam's natural-born talent—or his demon-given one—had deprived him of his last safe haven.

* * *

Bill Richards was an imposing figure of a man. Not quite six foot, he was broad and muscular with big strong hands. There was just something about her father's hands that Kaya loved. She remembered the way he held her high above his head when she was little, the way he used his hands to teach her about the forest and the animals he cared for.

"You make me proud." His words smoothed out the jumbled remnants of emotions still flowing through her as much as his warm hand on her arm. "You followed your instincts, listened to the spirit inside you and saved a man's life."

Kaya gazed into her father's brown eyes—so knowing, so wise—and basked in his approval. His face was weathered from a lifetime spent in nature, sun and wind, heat and cold. His long hair, usually bound in braids, was loose and flowing down past his shoulders, nearly to his waist. It was sprinkled with gray now, though Kaya remembered it as solid black, thick and straight. When the gray first appeared, he had laughed and told her the gray ones always rose up to be seen. They were proud and not satisfied to hide beneath the younger ones. The gray ones were a mark of wisdom, of one who had weathered the storms of life and lived.

"So you thought to help this man, and he turned away from you," her father observed.

He could always read her thoughts, but she didn't like the direction he was going now. She didn't want to hear what he was saying.

"I'm glad." His familiar smile wasn't enough to take the sting out of his words. "A man should make his own way."

"He needs help. He almost died," she argued.

Sometimes she thought her father was too hard. Sam had been confused when she brought him home from the hospital. He had no one, as far as Kaya could tell. He wasn't experienced with life in the wilderness. He needed help. He seemed so alone, so weak. It broke her heart to see him struggling, refusing to accept help as if he didn't deserve it. But he did deserve it; everyone deserved help.

"And you saved his life." Bill snorted. "Now you want to keep him like a pet."

Kaya glared at her father. Is that what she wanted? Honestly, she couldn't begin to understand what Sam made her feel. She had no idea how to deal with the feelings he stirred in her. "No. I—"

"You should be careful, Kaya. Grief is a hard master." Her father's eyes turned suddenly darker. Concern crept across his features as he studied her face. She felt small under his knowing gaze. Her father knew grief. The loss of her mother, his wife, was one of the storms he'd weathered in his lifetime. "You can be a friend," he went on, "but Sam will have to face his grief and learn to control the beast." Bill wrapped a comforting arm around his daughter. "Until he does that, he will not be able to have feelings for you, little one. You should turn your eyes elsewhere. You're young and innocent. He's older and weathered."

"He's not old," she protested.

"Maybe not so much in years, but once he faces that beast, he will not be the same man you think you know now."

Kay huffed. "I don't have feelings for him."

Bill laughed. "I know you. All your life, I've seen your feelings right there on your beautiful face." He pulled her tighter to him. "Just be careful."

* * *

All of Sam's past experiences screamed at him to go to ground and drop off the grid. That's what he had intended when he went to Rufus's . . . _the_ . . . _his _cabin. He owed Dr. Hanson for her services, and he owed the hospital a hefty sum. There was also the fact that Kaya knew more about him than he was comfortable with. In fact, that was the problem. They knew him, not just Kaya but also Dr. Hanson, the rescue workers and numerous people from the hospital. They knew his name. He was no longer a random guy drifting through, a man who would soon be a memory—part of a crazy time best forgotten.

It went against all Sam's training, everything his dad had taught him, everything Dean had taught him, but somewhere deep inside Sam—a place that was pure Sam—there was a longing that he couldn't quite grasp. In spite of a lifetime of training that screamed in his brain, he listened to the small whisper struggling to be heard. It told him to stay—told him he _needed_ to stay, pay his way and make his own life.

Sam had been spinning his wheels and was no closer to finding out what had happened to Dean than he was two months ago when he stood alone and watched the Leviathan stronghold go up in smoke. He had come close to killing himself. He'd neglected himself to the point of dehydration and malnutrition, and he'd damn near frozen to death. So he stopped searching, left all that back at the cabin and concentrated on healing.

"Everything looks good, Sam. I'm glad you came in for your follow-up appointment." Dr. Hanson leaned against the exam table as Sam sat in the small, straight-backed chair. "There are usually no lasting effects from hypothermia. Sometimes the heart can be affected, but you're young and you have a strong heart, so you're good to go."

"Thanks, Dr. Hanson." Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was feeling better—better than he'd felt in months.

"Please, call me Marilyn," she said with a smile, and Sam relaxed a little. "You look healthier, but you're still underweight and, I suspect, malnourished."

"I'm eating. I promise." Dr. Hanson reminded Sam of Ellen. He felt a bittersweet longing when he looked at her. Ellen Harvell was the closest thing—the only woman—Sam had ever known that was like a mother to him. Marilyn was like Ellen, with her long dark auburn hair and her knowing eyes. He couldn't help but respond to Marilyn's genuine warmth. She seemed to care, and, God knew, Sam wanted—needed—someone to care, but in his heart, Sam couldn't imagine why. She didn't really know him.

"Sam?" Marilyn eyed him, obviously assessing him. "I imagine you've racked up a few medical expenses in the past couple of weeks. I don't mean to pry, but I'm wondering if you need some help."

Sam could feel the heat creep up his neck and knew she would see him blushing like a little kid, but the way people around here seemed to want to help him made him a little nervous. He had ways to come up with money. Lifelong patterns of illegal but well-hidden methods to obtain cash or credit cards had kept him and Dean afloat for many years. She had no idea the things he knew.

"I'm between jobs," he offered. "That's why I didn't have insurance." He shrugged. "The hospital was able to cut me a little slack and knock off some of the cost."

"I imagine it's still a pretty sizable chunk. I know how costly medical care can be."

"Yeah, it's a bundle," Sam admitted.

"What kind of work do you do, Sam?"

"Security and surveillance. Little bit of IT, too. Family business." Sam's voice faltered. "But . . ."

Marilyn hesitated. "I know quite a few people in this town. I think I can find something for you."

Sam searched her face. _Why would she do this? _The suspicious nature of the hunter was bred and drilled into him, and he struggled to trust her.

"Maybe I can find an alternative to money for what you owe me, if you're willing to sweat." She pushed off from the exam table, holding out her hand to him. "Can you handle a shovel and a little physical work?"

Sam stood and gazed down at the doctor's offered hand before he finally took it in a warm, firm grip. He huffed out a little laugh. "I know how to handle a shovel." She had no idea how many graves he'd dug up over the years. "And I can handle a little physical work."

"Good." She dug into her lab coat pocket and fished out a card. "Come by this address on Wednesday morning. Five a.m."

* * *

Sam straightened his pale blue tie before buttoning his black suit coat. The badge hanging from his breast pocket identified him as a security officer at North Valley Hospital. With Sam's "special talents," it wasn't difficult to come up with a new laptop, printer and a work history with fake references that were acceptable to acquire the job. Sam's actual experience that qualified him for the job was quite different from what he'd presented to the Director of Security and would probably land him on the psych ward as a patient instead of getting him a job.

"Security. Winchester speaking," Sam answered his phone as he strode quickly down the hall toward the ER.

"Winchester, we need you to meet us at the landing pad," the Life Flight pilot's voice crackled in his ear.

"On my way," Sam responded. "Dr. Hanson already called me from the ER. Is this Phil?"

The pilot chuckled in Sam's ear. "Yeah, man. You recognize my pretty voice?"

Sam huffed a small laugh. "How bad is it?"

"It's a compound fracture from the slopes, a messy one, but the guy's confused and a mean drunk."

"Violent?" Sam nodded at Marilyn as he passed quickly through the ER and out the door that led to the helicopter pad, breaking into a dead run when his feet hit pavement.

"Not yet. He's real mouthy, though. The nurse and the respiratory therapist are trying to keep him talked down, but he's too drunk to want to cooperate for very long. You know the type—keeps throwing out curses and threats."

Sam could see the lights of the helicopter in the distance. "Yeah, I know."

"ETA's about five minutes."

"Ten-four." Sam ended the call and gazed up into the evening sky as the helicopter steadily made its way down from the mountain. He hit speed dial for backup and ran to grab the traffic cones to route traffic around the area.

"Man. I just sat down to eat," Roger, the other security officer on duty, complained when he answered Sam's call.

"Sorry." Sam unconsciously pressed his lips into a tight line and rolled his eyes. _What a fuck-off._ "They've got a drunk on the copter, and I need to help the team if he blows. You got three minutes to get out here and manage traffic." Sam ended the call and continued to place the orange cones out, blocking off the lane of traffic nearest the landing area. He could faintly hear the roar of the engine and the whir of the blades.

Two minutes later, Roger appeared, running out of the ER door and quickly getting in place with his flashlight and whistle to manage traffic around the small hospital.

Sam stood a safe distance from the landing pad as the wild downdraft created by the rotor blades of the helicopter pulled his hair in every direction at once—side to side, in his face, straight back from his face and around again. He slipped on the headset and was once again in communication with the pilot.

"Clear to land," Sam said as the pilot maneuvered the helicopter into position.

"Ten-four."

The headset kept Sam's hair out of his eyes, but the strong vortex caused his clothes to beat wildly against his body as he waited for Phil to set down. He could feel the adrenaline building, pulsing through his veins. He felt alive, chomping at the bit like a racehorse at the gate, waiting for the green light.

"The eagle has landed." Phil's voice crackled through the headset. "They need you ASAP. Dude didn't much care for my landing, and I think he's getting physical back there."

Sam started running toward the opening air ambulance doors.

"Duck your tall-ass head, man," Phil called in warning. "Don't want to be cleaning your gray matter off my rotor blades."

"Yeah," Sam answered and dropped his head even lower than it already was as he reached the ambulance.

Phil's laughter filled Sam's headset. "Man. I never saw anybody run so fast doubled over like that, Winchester. You look like a damn crab with those freakish long legs."

"Funny, you dick," Sam snarled.

"That's _Phil_,"

Phil's laughter still echoed through the headset when the nurse, Brad, turned to Sam. "Help her hold his leg still," he barked as he put more sedative into the patient's IV.

The patient's hands were tied to the gurney, and Rosemary, the respiratory therapist, was holding onto his broken leg, trying to keep it still. His pant leg had been cut open, and Sam could see the blood-soaked bandage covering the place where the rough edge of the broken bone had torn through the skin.

"He has a high tolerance for pain meds." Rosemary offered the explanation with a small shrug. "The more he moves, the more it hurts and the wilder he gets. Between the alcohol and the drugs, he's beyond reasoning."

Brad spoke into his head set, giving Dr. Hanson an update. "We should have knocked him out and tubed him up on the mountain, before we lifted off, but he didn't get wild until we were already in the air," he said as he quickly assessed the effect of the most recent drug he'd given.

Splints were already in place, but they were hopelessly ineffective against a flailing, angry drunk. Sam slipped on the pair of gloves he kept in his pocket and grabbed the man's ankle with one large hand, clasping it like a vise. He placed his other hand on the man's knee, pushing down and effectively immobilizing the leg. It made the drunken patient even angrier, and he struggled harder, but his broken leg was held immobile in Sam's strong grip.

Phil came around to the door to help, and the four of them got the gurney out of the ambulance, extending it's supporting framework to the ground.

"Let's roll," Brad called, and they headed for the ER doors.

Once in the trauma bay, Sam was relieved of holding the patient's leg immobile by one of the ER nurses who stabilized the leg just as Sam had done. He slowly backed through the curtains that separated the action in the bay from the rest of the ER. The adrenaline high had felt good, but the trip back down left him feeling emptier than he'd felt before all the excitement began.

The ER team moved easily and quickly together, each one attending to their duties. They were the picture of efficiency, and Sam knew every one of them was feeling that rush—the rush that was fading away from him now.

Dr. Hanson's voice rose clearly above the noise. "Get him sedated and intubated."

Sam saw Angela, one of the ER nurses, putting more medicine into the patient's IV, while Rosemary prepared the laryngoscope and an endotracheal tube. Sam knew she would insert it into the patient's throat.

"We need to paralyze him. Start a vecuronium drip." Dr. Hanson's calm orders continued to cut through all the noise and excitement. "Get him ready for OR."

The last thing Sam saw, before the curtains closed him out, was Dr. Hanson leaning down face to face with the wide-eyed, terrified drunken man, trying to explain what was happening to him. The patient strained against the restraints, his hands curled into tight fists. He had no idea they were trying to help—trying to save his leg.

A hard slap on his back brought Sam out of his trance.

"Hey." Phil smiled as Sam turned away from the trauma bay. "Some of us are going out tonight after the shift. You should come with us, Winchester."

"Thanks, but I've got to be up early in the morning."

"Ah, hell. You're not doubling back to day shift tomorrow, are you? That sucks."

"No. I'm off the next two days."

"Then you should definitely come out with us. You need to blow off some steam, buddy. We're going to Big Pines. It's a local dive. There's always lot's of pretty cruising around the place." Phil grinned, wagging his eyebrows at Sam.

"No. I've got to be up by six. Another job, man."

"Well, if you change your mind, you could drop by for a quick one on your way home." Phil gave Sam a strange, knowing kind of look. "You need to loosen up and live a little."

* * *

Sam was living. He made it from one day to the next paying his debts and working at his jobs. He hadn't heard Dean's voice in weeks, but he still had an emptiness so deep it felt as if part of him had been hacked off.

He was eating better, sleeping better and, thanks to Dr. Hanson, he'd not only gained weight, but he'd gained muscle mass. She wasn't kidding when she'd asked him if he could handle hard work. She'd let him barter work at Aspen Ridge for the money he owed her and for room and board at the ranch.

Sam liked the ranch. Aspen Ridge was in the valley, only a few miles out of Whitefish. The aspens that the ranch was named for were beyond their fall glory of bright yellow and orange, but the evergreens were abundant. Sam had never noticed so many shades of green. A dense forest of deep green pine surrounded the ranch, the treetops rolling with the land and layering like fluffy pillows off into the distant mountains. Pine, fir, spruce and juniper trees in shades from cool blue to blue-green were scattered among the bright white rail fences that surrounded the immaculately clean ranch, paddocks and arenas.

Life on a horse ranch wasn't something Sam knew. Growing up moving from town to town and living in one motel room after another, there was never much opportunity for a long-term, settled life like ranching. The foreman started him off away from the horses, mostly hoisting bales of hay or mucking out empty stalls. It was grunt work, but Sam liked it. It kept him busy and, between working full time at the hospital and part time at the ranch, it kept his hands moving and his body tired. He didn't have time to get restless, and he was tired enough to sleep all night.

Sam was a fast learner, and it didn't take him long to ease his way into working with the horses. Marilyn laughed and said he was a natural with the animals. "Watch out," she told him. "Horses will get into your blood. They are noble animals." He flushed at her encouragement, and he craved the mornings that she came out to the barn to look over the horses or go out for an early ride.

It had been the luck of the draw that had kept Sam from running into Kaya at the ranch for the past six weeks, since the morning after he'd gotten out of the hospital the morning he'd been so rude to her. But his luck—bad or good—changed when she walked around the corner and came face to face with him as he led Penny, her quarter horse, out of the barn.

"Sam?" She was obviously surprised. "What—"

"Kaya?" Sam stopped, frozen in place. He'd been leading Penny out to one of the arenas. He knew Kaya was coming to ride her, but she was early. He hadn't expected to see her—hadn't expected to be faced with his own mistake in her accusing eyes. "Listen. I'm sorry I wasn't fair to you when"—he fumbled to find words—"well, the last time I saw you." Penny stomped her foot restlessly and snorted lightly, pulling against his shoulder. He ignored her, keeping his focus on Kaya. "I was still a little freaked out and confused." He couldn't possibly explain it to her. His suspicions weren't normal, but they were real—at least in his world. "I wasn't thinking straight."

She reached for Penny's reins. "What are you doing here?"

He held the reins out for her. She was careful not to touch his hand as she took them. She was still hurt—or angry. Sam sighed. "I work on the ranch to pay Marilyn what I owe her for treating me." He finally looked away from her, his eyes wandering down to his dirty muck boots.

"You take care of the horses?"

"I do whatever the foreman needs me to do, and I get room and board at the bunkhouse."

"Bartering?"

"It's a time-honored tradition."

"So it is." She finally smiled at him, but it wasn't that genuine smile that lit up her whole face—innocent and playful—like he remembered. "It's good to know you've found a safe place, Sam." She turned away, pulled the reins, and led Penny out of the barn.

Sam stood watching silently as she led her horse to the mounting block and swung into the saddle. Her hair fell long and free, flowing out behind her as she pushed Penny from a walk into a canter, disappearing into the trees down one of the riding trails around the ranch. He turned back to the stall that was waiting to be mucked out. The conversation with Kaya was left unfinished, and maybe one day they would talk again, but he could feel it in his gut: The friendship, if that's what it was, was over.

... **... **...

_**TBC**_


	5. I Know Who I Want To Take Me Home

_**Beta by Sam's Folly**_

* * *

_**Soul Survivor**_

_**Chapter 5 –**_ _**I Know Who I Want to Take Me Home**_

…...

"Hey, Winchester?"

Sam was just setting his food tray on a table in the hospital cafeteria when he turned to acknowledge the Air Care pilot's greeting.

"Mind if I join you?" Phil didn't wait for an answer. He put his tray down opposite Sam's on the table and pulled out a chair, dropping into it with a huff.

"Busy day?" Sam opened his bottle of water and took a big gulp before he picked up his fork and started in on his chef's salad. The smell of Phil's cheeseburger and fries wafted up to Sam's nose. His gut clenched with the memories that smell brought back to him, but he quickly pushed them aside and chewed intently on his salad.

"Nah, not really. No flights, anyway." Phil shrugged. "Been cleaning up the eagle all afternoon. It's a good day for it. It's only cold out, not freeze-your-ass-off cold. Still, it's better than swoop 'n' scoops in Iraq—in hundred-and-ten-degree heat when there ain't no damn shade." Phil shoved a ketchup-drenched french fry into his mouth and chewed a few times before he swallowed. "Yeah. Even on a busy day, this is the life. And after an eternity in the Mideast, I fucking love snow."

"Yeah." Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I can imagine."

"I bet you can." Phil gazed intently at Sam as he bit off a mouthful of burger.

Sam cleared his throat and watched Phil slowly chew and swallow, obviously enjoying the taste of his lunch. Sam closed his eyes and choked down his grief. It was stupid and Sam was angry with himself. How could he let himself get sentimental and broken up over the smell of a burger or watching a man eat? He thought of giving up on his dinner and just leaving.

"Where did you serve, Sam? What branch?"

The question caught Sam off guard, but he answered quickly. "I was never in the military."

"What, then?" Phil's eyes narrowed when Sam looked at him.

Sam's throat was suddenly dry. What the hell was Phil getting at? Why was he digging into Sam's personal life? What did he care?

Phil was a little rough around the edges, but Sam had thought he was mostly fun-loving and light-hearted. Still, anybody could have a dark, introspective day, especially an ex-soldier. Sam understood that. Hell, he lived it every day—dark and introspective—but Phil seemed to be drilling him, and Sam couldn't share the details of his life, not even the generalities of it. He couldn't share any of his life with anyone.

"_Family business—the big family secret. We do what we do and we don't talk about it to anybody. Nobody can know what we do—nobody."_

"Family business. Security." Sam knew the moment the words fell off his tongue his answer sounded defensive and wasn't in the confident tone he was going for. What the hell was wrong with him? He could hide his feelings better than this. He was a hunter, for God's sake.

"Black ops, then." Phil seemed satisfied with his own answer to his question and continued to push. "Afghanistan?"

Sam schooled his features, forcing his uncertainties down deep. He laid his fork next to his salad bowl and leaned in closer toward Phil. He had to stop this line of questioning. He could do this. He was a hunter. When the seemingly fearless ex-military pilot moved back a fraction, Sam knew he'd gotten his emotions under control and had the look he needed. He kept his voice low and soft. "I can't talk about it, Phil. Drop it."

Phil froze, his eyes caught in Sam's intense gaze.

Black ops? It was a lie, but it was better than the truth, and it was something Phil wanted to believe. More than that, it would shut him up. Sam knew Phil would have to let this whole discussion drop if he thought it was a matter of military security.

Phil held up his hands. "It's dropped."

Sam picked up his fork and stabbed at his salad. He hated lying, but he didn't have a choice—and maybe it wasn't that far from the truth. Sam had begun training for war when he was eight years old. He was hunting by the time he was thirteen. His brief time at Stanford was a faded memory, a brief respite from the hunting life. He couldn't remember how it felt not to hunt—not to be in the midst of a war. Hell, if he'd been in the military, he would've had more than twenty years in by now, and he could retire. But, then again, the military wouldn't have started training him at age eight, and you couldn't retire from hunting.

"I know, Sam. I know what it's like." Phil's heartfelt words stabbed their way into Sam's consciousness.

Sam stared into the chopped up bits of assorted food that made up his salad. "How could you?" he whispered. He hated Phil for bringing all the pain up to the surface. Sam had thought he was doing fine. He was making it, day by day, trying to make an honest life, working and repaying his debts. He still struggled with memories, sadness and fear sometimes, but if he stayed busy, if he kept working, if he worked himself to the point of exhaustion, he didn't think about his life. He didn't think about the fact that Dean was gone—that everyone was gone. He didn't think about the fact that he was alone.

"I know because I lived it, too," said Phil. "Two times around in Iraq and once in Afghanistan." Phil put his burger down and focused on Sam. "When I first got out, I was lost. I couldn't forget my life back there . . . all the shit I'd seen. I felt guilty for being out and leaving my buddies in a war zone. It was hard, Sam, learning to live a different life, a civilian life. I'd all but forgotten how to do that."

_I never knew how to do that. I was never a civilian. How could you possibly know?_

"I'm telling you, Sam, this is a fun town, full of good people, people who want to be your friends." Phil picked up his burger. "Somewhere behind that bitch-face you wear all the time there's a fun guy. I'm gonna find a way to get that stick out of your ass and get you to live a little."

"What? You're my shrink now?" Sam leveled a dark, warning look at Phil. "I don't need a shrink."

"I know what you need, Winchester." Phil smiled and pointed his finger at Sam, unfazed by Sam's hard stare. "You need to socialize. You need to be out making friends. You need to hit Big Pines with us. The flight crew, some of the ER nurses—we all want you to join the group, Sam. We're going tonight. Come on."

Sam chewed on the forkful of salad that had somehow made its way into his mouth. He looked up at Phil, whose face was jovial and inviting, as if he hadn't just ripped open the scar on Sam's soul and brought all his pain back to the surface.

"I can't tonight. I've got—"

"Yeah, I know. Five a.m. Damn. Do you ever get a day off from that job? What job is that?"

"Horse ranch."

"No shit." Phil laughed, and Sam couldn't help the small smile that curled his lips. "You don't look like a cowboy."

* * *

Sam was bent down low beside one of the miniature horses, cleaning out the horse's hooves. He was a spirited little animal who's whinny often rang high and loud across the pasture when he was left out to run and graze. When he got fussy or restless during his grooming, Sam just smiled. He figured this little fella had something to prove, kind of like a Chihuahua. Even though the horse was the size of a rather large dog, compared to the other horses, he was very small. Maybe he had Short Horse syndrome, kind of like Short Man syndrome. Sam had heard about it, but he wouldn't know. He snickered at his own thoughts.

The horse stomped and snorted, swishing his tail and ducking his head, threatening to nip at Sam. "It's okay, little fella." Sam patiently waited for the horse to finish with his show of rebellion before lifting his hoof to clean it. "Last one."

Frank's growling voice came from behind Sam. "Get your narrow ass out of my sight."

Sam dropped the horse's foot and straightened to his full height, glancing over his shoulder at the foreman. "Not my best side?"

"Not for me, it ain't. Some of the ladies 'round here might disagree." Frank leaned against the fence with his forearms across the top rail. His face was brown and leathery with deep crow's feet that lived permanently around his watery pale blue eyes. His hands were thick with callouses, the knuckles swollen with arthritis. He showed the wear and tear of a lifetime of grooming and training, teaching and managing—not just the horses and the ranch, but the people who worked the ranch.

Sam dropped the hoof pick into the grooming caddy and took the horse blanket Frank held out for him. "I'm not flirting with the ladies, Frank." He stooped to fasten the blanket over the little horse's back, gave him a pat on the hindquarters, and sent him out to roam.

"I know that. I can see. Hell, you flirt more with the horses than . . ." He gazed out across the pasture. "You need to keep it that way."

Sam didn't answer, but he gave Frank his full attention. The man was getting at something and Sam was curious.

"These women around here, rich and bored or tourists passing through . . . you don't seem like the boy toy type, Sam. You're young, but I figure you've had your heart ripped open a time or two. You got that sorta sad look about you."

"I'm not that young." Sam didn't deny having his heart broken, and he couldn't deny that some of the women made overt gestures at him either, objectifying him in a way that made him uncomfortable.

"Then you know you won't find what you need around here." Frank gave Sam a wink and slapped him on the shoulder. "Get the hell off this ranch. You're finished for the day. Clean yourself up, put on some nice clothes and good-smelling stuff and go to town. Go to the library or the coffee shop, wherever you young folks run into each other. Find a dance to go to, boy." Frank threw up his hands.

Sam was stunned, and he stared blankly at Frank.

"Hell, you hang around this ranch all day," Frank said, continuing his tirade. "Don't think I don't appreciate the help, but I can't afford to pay you full time. It ain't in the budget." He returned Sam's blank stare with a hard glare of his own. "Besides, you need to get out of the rut you live in. Go find a life while you're young." He let out a long hard sigh, a large plume of vapor flowing out into the cold air like smoke. "Go play."

"Frank, I'm fine right where I am. You don't have to pay me. I just—"

"I don't want to see you back at this ranch until day after tomorrow," Frank blustered, his lips a thin angry line behind his bushy gray mustache. Sam was at a loss for words and continued to stare. Frank turned and stomped away without another word.

_What the hell? _Sam wondered why Frank was so interested in his personal life all of a sudden, and he couldn't help but be suspicious. It took him a hot shower and a few miles down the road in his beat-up old Chevy truck to begin to push his suspicions aside and understand what happened. Frank was trying to help in his own very unpolished but sincere way.

It was the second time in as many days someone had tried to tell Sam what he needed. He understood the meddling. He just didn't appreciate it. He knew what he needed. He needed to work. He needed the distraction, something to keep him busy, to keep him from remembering, to keep him from thinking.

People needed to leave him alone and quit assuming they knew what he needed. His boss at the hospital had refused to let him work anymore this week, saying he'd put in too many hours the past month. It wasn't healthy for him and she couldn't afford to pay him that much overtime. He tried to remind her that most of the money he made went back to the hospital to pay his debt, but she refused that logic and ran him out of her office, telling him she didn't want to see him again until Monday afternoon.

He had Friday, Saturday and Sunday off from the hospital, and now he wasn't allowed to work the ranch until Sunday. Sam was beginning to brood, wondering if Phil, Frank, and Carol, the security director at the hospital, had all gotten together to plot against him and ruin his perfect routine.

_Library? _Sam gripped the steering wheel and ground his teeth as he stared out the windshield. A Library meant research and memories.

_A dance? Are you kidding me? Like dancing was something on Dad's training schedule. Do they even have dances anymore? That must be something out of Frank's younger days, fifty years ago. _

_A coffee shop? _Sam winced at the thought. _What the hell am I gonna do in a coffee shop but sit, drink coffee and think—alone? _And that was the problem. Sam knew, as long as he kept himself busy, he wouldn't have to think about his life or the fact that he no longer had one. He wouldn't have to think about being left behind, how everyone else was gone and he was all there was. He felt the familiar lump rise in his throat. He wouldn't have to think about Dean being . . .

The lump in his throat burst and came out as a wet sob. He was parked in front of the laundromat, leaning over, his forehead resting on his hands as they held fast to the steering wheel. Sam was honest enough with himself to know that it wasn't just grief that was tearing him apart. It was also fear. He knew he'd let his grief get so out of control that he nearly lost his mind, nearly let himself die. Since then, he'd forced himself to eat well and regularly, to work and build up his strength to regain his health and his mind.

But he was walking a tightrope, and he feared all this time off would upset his balance. He feared the guilt and grief would once again overwhelm him. The voices would get out of control and make him crazy. The voices would kill him.

Maybe he should have been dead all along. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he should go back to the cabin and let things happen the way they were meant to. He would either find out how to bring Dean back or join him in death. Sam's mind shut down to silence, waiting for an answer.

_No!_ His brain finally kicked in. _Dean would b__e pissed._

"_Keep fighting, Sammy."_

"Dean," Sam whispered. "I don't know if I can."

"_Yes, you can, Sammy. Yes, you can. You're all I have left. Come on, man. Do it for me."_

It took Sam a while to force his grief and fear back down into hiding. When he'd gotten himself composed, he took the basket with his dirty clothes and went to do his laundry. At least he had something to do for the next hour.

After he finished folding his clean clothes, he put them in his truck and headed to the diner to grab some lunch, then went to the library to scout it out and see if there was any useful reference material. There wasn't. After spending the afternoon at the library and going back to the diner for dinner, he sat in his truck, eyeing his clean laundry.

Sam had precious little in the way of clothes. The cheap black suit that was his security uniform was furnished by the hospital. He thought he wore it well but wasn't comfortable in a suit. He idly ran his hand across the assorted flannel that topped off the basket of thrift store clothes.

He gritted his teeth and made up his mind. He was going out tonight and he wasn't going in the same clothes he wore to muck out horse stalls. He left his truck at the diner and walked downtown to browse the shops for new clothes.

He got more help than he wanted in the first shop he entered. The sales associate appraised him thoughtfully and ushered him to the fitting rooms where she brought numerous outfits that she said accentuated what she called "his _very_ nice build." But Sam didn't feel like himself in the outfits she brought, and his common sense prevailed. He bought a pair of black low-cut jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt. The sales associate topped his choice off with a thin silver-buckled belt, black boots and a black leather jacket.

"You look like a man of mystery," she said with a smile as she ran his credit card.

It wasn't that Sam had any great desire to go out or that he thought Phil and Frank's advice was good. It wasn't the socializing he needed or the partying. He wasn't doing this because he thought he'd have fun. Sam didn't expect to have fun. He expected to be distracted. He'd been wandering all day, trying to keep himself occupied without work, and he wasn't nearly tired enough to sleep.

It wasn't a guarantee that being at the bar in the midst of a crowd would keep him distracted from his thoughts or keep the voices, the grief, and the guilt at bay. But Sam decided it was worth a try, and Big Pine was as good a place as any. At least he might run into people he knew from the hospital.

* * *

Big Pine wasn't much different from thousands of neighborhood pubs in small towns and cities all across the country. Sam felt as if he'd seen most of them while crisscrossing the country with Dean. The décor was all about the mountains and the rustic past, with its dark interior and heavy wooden tables and chairs. The bar itself was monstrously long and snaked along the length of one side of the open room. There was a stage and a dance floor that occupied half of the back of the room, and a band was playing a variety of rock hits.

Sam didn't look too closely at his surroundings in the crowded pub. _Not yet, _he thought. He headed straight to the bar and ordered a beer, downing a long swallow quickly. A strong hand slapped his back.

"Winchester."

Sam turned into Phil's grinning face.

"You finally made it. Glad you decided to join us." Phil ordered a bucket of beers.

Sam's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Bucket of beers?"

"Yeah. It's a sweet deal. Buy five and get one free." The bartender placed a bucket filled with ice and six beers on the counter, and Phil dropped cash down in payment. "Next bucket's on you, Winchester," he grinned. "Come on." He jerked his chin toward a table near the stage. The table was at the edge of the dance floor, in the middle of all the action.

Sam hesitated, looking at the table Phil had indicated. It was bathed in the light from the stage, and all of the people sitting there were clearly visible to him. Most of them he knew: Rosemary, one of the flight RTs; Brad, one of the flight nurses; Angie and Tim, both ER nurses; and a few others Sam hadn't met. It wasn't the people that made Sam's hunter's instincts scream. It was the scene they created in that particular place. The last thing he wanted was to be near the spotlight with a rowdy crowd that drew attention to itself. Being in a highly noticeable place went against a lifetime of training, and it put his nerves even more on edge.

Phil paused as Sam did, then managed to catch Sam's eye, pulling his attention away from the table. "It's okay, Sam. It's a safe place. Everybody wants you to join us."

Sam's brow wrinkled again in confusion. He glanced at the table, then back at Phil. "It's kinda . . . bright," Sam hedged.

Understanding dawned on Phil's face. "It's okay, Sam. This is not a war zone."

"_Everywhere is a war zone," _Dean's voice warned._ "The whole world is a war zone."_

_Dean? _Sam almost spoke his brother's name aloud. _Now? Really? _After being silent for weeks, Dean decides to speak up again now_?_

Sam forced himself to go against his training, his hunter's instincts, and Dean's voice. He managed a small smile and a nod before he turned and walked toward the table full of people who, for some reason he couldn't fathom, wanted him for a friend. _Maybe._

The band was good—classic rock. Dean would love it. After a couple of beers, Sam could feel his body begin to relax. The vibration of the drums and the bass pulsed into his bones, reminding him of long trips in the Impala with Dean at the wheel. He'd been completely at ease, often sleeping to the hum of the engine and the beat of the music.

After a couple of beers, Sam leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretching out and swaying a little to the rhythm of "Bad Company." His smile came a little easier and he began to laugh at the banter of the friends around the table. These people were comfortable with each other and welcoming to Sam. If felt good. He almost felt safe.

Rosemary leaned in close to Sam, so close he could feel her warm breath breeze lightly across his cheek. "Dance with me," she whispered.

"I . . . um . . . " He looked into her deep blue eyes, and she smiled.

"Come on." She eased her fingers around his hand and pulled him to his feet. "You don't have to be good at it. Just shake it up a little," she urged, stepping backwards toward the dance floor and pulling Sam along.

"_Ah, Sammy. Go for it." _Dean's familiar challenge floated through Sam's mind.

The band moved on to "Simple Man" by _Lynyrd Skynyrd_,and Sam and Rosemary danced slowly, his hands on her hips as she swayed to the music, her fingers digging slightly into the flesh of his shoulders, matching the rhythm of her hips. Rosemary was beautiful, like a golden goddess. Sam could imagine running his hands through her thick blond hair and getting lost in her full lips.

She smiled at him with those perfectly even bright white teeth, then hummed as she laid her head on his shoulder, moving closer against his body. She was warm, and he thought she might be willing. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of her perfume. It had been a long time since he'd held a woman in his arms, and it was so tempting to let his mind drift, to imagine that he could be safe with her in this place.

But Sam opened his eyes and looked into the crowd. He idly scanned the tables that were shrouded in darkness along the far wall. They were far from the light of the stage—lit only by soft candles. His heart stuttered in the moment when his eyes locked with a pair of soft, liquid-black, almond-shaped eyes. He shouldn't be able to see them in the darkness from this distance, but he saw them clearly. They were Kaya's eyes that met so briefly with his before she turned her head and looked away. Her eyes lingered in his memory, and he could feel the blush that hid behind her long black hair.

She was seated at a table with a group—friends, he hoped. He hoped she wasn't with a date because, if she was on a date, he was about to make a fool of himself. There was no way he could stop. He could barely keep himself in any kind of rhythm with Rosemary to finish the dance—could hardly feel her body moving against his or even remember her at all. How long could a song possibly be, anyway?

As soon as the song ended, Sam pulled Rosemary back to their table. "My turn to get drinks," he announced as she slid into her seat. He made his way to the bar and bought two buckets of beers.

"I saw someone I know," Sam said as he placed one bucket on the table in front of Phil. "I owe her and her friends beers." He motioned to the second bucket he held in his hand and gave a sheepish smile in apology as he backed away from his new-found friends and headed toward what he hoped would be a friendly encounter.

...

Kaya didn't expect to see Sam Winchester at Big Pines. She didn't expect to see him dancing. He didn't seem like the dancing type. And she didn't expect it to affect her the way it did. The woman he was dancing with was everything Kaya wasn't. The woman's long blond hair curled around her shoulders. She was tall, not as tall as Sam, but they seemed to fit together beautifully. Her long thin frame complemented his—a perfect pair.

Kaya watched as they moved together, his hands caressing the blonde's hips, as if she was his. Her hands possessively caressed his shoulders. He was more at ease than Kaya had ever seen him. His eyes closed, and he seemed lost in the dance and lost in the arms of the beautiful woman.

Kaya felt a sharp pang of jealousy. She had no right to be jealous, but she was. When Sam opened his eyes and caught her staring, she felt it like a cold slap, and she quickly looked away, breathless.

Of all the things Kaya didn't expect, she didn't expect Sam Winchester to arrive at her table, bucket of beers in his hand and a smile on his face.

...**...**...

_**TBC**_


	6. Sweet Slow Motion

_Thanks to Sam's Folly for the beta._

_Thanks for all the comments, favorites and follows._

_**Soul Survivor**_

_**Chapter Six – Sweet Slow Motion**_

* * *

_It's centrifugal motion. It's perpetual bliss. It's a pivotal moment. It's impossible. This kiss, this kiss, unstoppable._

"_This Kiss" - Lerner, Roboff, Chapman_

_**...**_

Rosemary couldn't get Sam Winchester out of her mind. She'd been eyeing him for weeks now, ever since he'd started working at the hospital. Who wouldn't notice him? He was the best-looking man there. She'd always loved the looks of a man in a nice, tailored suit, but Sam made the cheap suit the hospital furnished look good with his long, lean frame and broad shoulders. Oh, yeah. Rosemary had been admiring Sam as often as she could, so when Sam had finally shown up at Big Pines, she moved in fast.

Dancing with Sam had been like a dream. He was gorgeous, tall enough to make her feel short—and at five foot ten, she was not a short girl. That feeling alone had been kind of nice, but the whole package? That was intoxicating. She'd dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his shoulders and nearly melted at the feel of his big hands on her waist, his long fingers pressing nervously into her. He'd been a little bit shy. She'd seen it in his smile, a little hesitant but finally breaking into bright white teeth and dimples. She'd felt it when he finally relaxed into the dance, his body matching the rhythm of hers, his fingers drumming lightly into her hips.

The night hadn't turned out exactly as she'd hoped. He'd dropped her back at their table and she'd watched as he made his way across the club to a dark corner. Rosemary had seen the girl he'd gone to talk to at Big Pines before. The girl wasn't there often, and she always kept to her own group of friends. The girl was Native American, with long, thick black hair, creamy skin and dark eyes. Rosemary had never paid that much attention to the girl before, never seeing her as competition—until last night. Rosemary had watched the encounter with interest for a short time, but when Sam didn't return to their group, she quickly turned her attention to other matters.

Rosemary stretched and yawned as she pulled on her robe. She glanced back at her bed before making her way to the kitchen for coffee. Phil's dark redish-blond hair peeked out from under the covers. The night hadn't turned out exactly as she'd hoped, but she was sure she could fix that and in the future, there would be long dark brown hair—Sam Winchester's hair—peeking out from under the covers.

* * *

Kaya's eyes slowly peeled half open. She winced against the bright morning light and the sharp pain that stabbed through her head. A moan froze in her throat when she recognized the weight of a pair of long arms wrapped around her and realized that she was face-planted on a very broad, muscular chest. She didn't have to think too hard, thank God, to figure out that the body heat radiating up through her was Sam's.

She remembered more than a couple of "bucket of beers" coming to the table, and she remembered dancing. The man had no rhythm, but slow dancing with Sam had been like drifting in a dream. _Oh, shit._ Did he actually dip her on the dance floor, in front of everybody? _How lame._ She might never hear the end of it from her friends.

_Oh, shit. _She felt a wet pool around her mouth and saw the dark, damp fabric of Sam's shirt as she lifted her heavy head off of his chest. _Oh, shit. _She'd drooled on the man in her sleep. She glanced up to see his head tilted back against the arm of the sofa, his long neck showing some serious morning stubble. She swallowed hard. _Damn._ Apparently, he was a heavy sleeper since he didn't wake as she started to panic. That was one good thing in what was turning out to be a fiasco. If she was just a little bit lucky, he wouldn't figure out what that wet spot on his shirt was. She slipped out of his grasp and ran for the bathroom.

Moments later, Kaya slowly lifted her head from the toilet and groaned in answer to the knock on the bathroom door.

"Are you okay?" Sam's low, soft voice drifted through the closed door.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Kaya spoke too soon as a second wave of nausea swept through her and she started retching into the toilet again. She heard the doorknob rattling. "No! Don't—"

It was too late. Sam was kneeling at her side, pulling her hair out of the way and gazing at her with heart-melting concern in his eyes. "You done?"

_Damn it. _She was mortified, but apparently her body couldn't care less as she convulsively dry heaved, her face hanging helplessly in the toilet.

"It's okay," Sam comforted.

It was obvious he was trying to soothe her, but Kaya was still embarrassed beyond words. She hadn't been so drunk in . . . ever. _Why now?_ This was so not okay. "Shit."

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Kaya." Sam rubbed his hand in circles on her back.

"I said that out loud?"

"Just the "shit" part." He moved his hand from her back to card his fingers through her hair, encouraging her to look up at him. "Seriously, don't be embarrassed. I guess you don't do this often . . . or ever, maybe."

"Stop reading my mind. I'm having a hard enough time keeping what's going on in my head straight without wondering whether I said it out loud." It wasn't right to be angry at Sam, but the anger helped to push the nausea out of her mind and made her feel a little less helpless. "I think I'm done." She pushed against the toilet and carefully stood, wincing at the pain in her head that seemed to get worse with the change in altitude.

Sam flushed away the vomit and then curled his arms around her to steady her. "Let's get you cleaned up." He grabbed the hand towel from the towel rack and soaked it with cold water.

Kaya managed to look up at him as he wiped her face, and she was embarrassed all over again. Drool, vomit, spit, and no doubt some snot mixed in; that was way more of her bodily fluids than she ever wanted anybody to see. He traced around her lips, her nose and her cheeks with the cloth and gave her a little smile. She had to admit that the cool cloth felt good on her face, but it did little to ease the banging in her head. This was not like her, but he didn't know that. What else could he think but that she was a drunk? How did she let herself get to this?

"Oh, God." Kaya leaned on the sink, her eyes slowly rising to the mirror. "Oh, God," she repeated when she saw her reflection, and this was after Sam had cleaned her face. Her eyes were red and swollen. Mascara bled down from her lashes in a dark smudge, adding to the circles under her eyes. She moaned and smacked her lips, the sour taste of bile filling her mouth. "I need to brush my teeth," she announced.

"Okay. I'll just . . ." Sam gave her a vague shrug and moved off down the hall, leaving her alone with the mess she saw in the mirror. She ran warm water over the cloth he'd used and scrubbed her face until her eyes were free of last night's leftover makeup. Then she grabbed her toothbrush and paste. The paste, or just the act of scrubbing her back teeth, made her gag and nearly loose it again, but she breathed through it and got the retching under control. Her stomach was still rolling, and the nausea made her lightheaded.

"You need a big greasy breakfast," Sam called from the kitchen.

"Ugh. Maybe just coffee," she called back to him. Every step she took pounded through her body and exploded in her head, but she slowly made her way to the kitchen. He reached a long arm out to guide her as he pulled a chair out from the table and sat her in it. She was quick to prop her elbows up and cradle her head in her hands. "I've never had a headache this bad."

"Have you got aspirin? Tylenol?" He placed a tall glass of water in front of her.

"Medicine cabinet. Bathroom."

"Okay. You're probably dehydrated, so drink all of this and I'll get you more water for the aspirin."

He set off for the bathroom, and she tried to remember how exactly he came to be at her house asleep—with her on top of him. He was still dressed and she was still dressed, so apparently nothing happened, nothing sexual anyway, but she did fall asleep on top of him. How she got in that position—draped across his body—she couldn't remember. She rolled her eyes and immediately regretted that move as a sharp pain shot through her head.

Sam laid two aspirin on the table in front of Kaya, then turned to the refrigerator. "You got bacon and eggs? I'm not a good cook." He bent over, leaning into the refrigerator, obviously looking for the food. Kaya felt suddenly hot, and she flushed when he looked back and caught her staring at his butt. His face flushed as red as hers. "But I can fry eggs and bacon."

Kaya groaned and pulled herself up to make coffee.

"I'll get—"

"I can make coffee," she groused, and he threw his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be so grouchy." She pulled coffee and a filter out of the cabinet to load the coffeemaker. Her hands trembled with the effort. "You're not seeing me at my best right now."

"Well, that makes us even, because you've not seen me at my best. Although, last night might have been pretty close."

"Yeah?" She poured water in the coffeemaker as he laid strips of bacon in a pan to fry. "I'm a little vague on some of last night. Exactly how close to your best were you?"

"What part are you vague on?"

"Well, I remember the first couple of 'bucket of beers' and introducing you to my friends—which, by the way, what happened to my friends?"

"Nothing happened to your friends. They seem like nice people, but they kind of went their way and we went ours." He scooped out the bacon, laying it on paper towels to drain, and cracked eggs in the pan. "These eggs will be nice and greasy. Just what you need."

"What I need is coffee and some understanding of what happened last night."

"Okay. Let's get some coffee and some food in you, and we'll talk about it."

While Sam finished making breakfast, Kaya sat at the kitchen table with her head resting in her hands, waiting for the aspirin to take effect and ease the pounding that had settled behind her eyes. Each time her heart beat, she felt as if her head might explode, and she lost awareness of anything but the painful beat, beat, beat until Sam slid a plate and cup in front of her. The smell of bacon, eggs and especially fresh coffee pulled her back to reality.

Once she'd eaten and finished her coffee, she was surprised that she felt better so soon. Either the coffee, the greasy food or the aspirin worked—maybe the combination of all of those things. Sam was right, and he was looking at her with a knowing grin on his face.

"It's the water really." And there he was, reading her mind again. "The headache comes because of dehydration. Water helps more than coffee. You feel better, right?"

"Yeah." She smiled back at him. "And I'm getting the feeling that you're enjoying this."

"Ye—no, no." The startled look on his face was priceless as he struggled to right himself.

She couldn't help but laugh. "Caught you off guard, and the truth comes out."

"No. I'm just glad you feel better."

"So how did you end up spending the night at my house and amusing yourself while I nearly die of a hangover?"

"You invited me." Honestly, his seemingly anxious little smiles left her kind of defenseless. And yet, even though he seemed a bit nervous, there was an ease about him that she hadn't seen before. "Actually, you pretty much insisted I come home with you. Apparently, I'm a really good dancer, and you like my shoulders"—he blushed—"a lot." He ran his fingers lightly across the wet spot on the front of his shirt. "To the point of drooling on me?"

It was Kaya's turn to blush and she stared at him, unable to think of any way to deny or defend herself. "Sorry. Don't let it go to your head. I was drunk." She ducked her head and let out a defeated sigh. "I'm not like that. I don't know what got into me. I don't usually . . . well, ever . . . drink that much. I mean, I'm not a drunk."

Sam's face suddenly became serious. "I keep telling you, it's okay. You've seen me in worse shape, more than once, and it happens to everybody. I don't think you're a drunk."

She stood up and took the empty plates to the sink. "So, I insisted you come home with me and then what? How much more of a fool did I make of myself?"

"Kaya, you didn't make a fool of yourself. We watched a movie, and you fell asleep."

"Passed out, you mean."

"Well, yes."

"And?"

"There may have been a kiss before you passed out."

"And?"

"It was a good kiss?"

She glared at him.

"A really good kiss?" he placated.

"And?"

"And then I passed out, too."

Sam stood when she walked back to the table. He loomed over her, taller by a foot at least, but he looked uncertain. The ease he'd shown all morning was suddenly gone.

"What movie did we watch?" she asked.

"I don't remember."

"Me either. Want to try again?" She took his arm and pulled him toward the living room.

"The movie or the kiss?" He stopped her, pulling her around to face him. She froze, her eyes locked with his, her heartbeat hammering, her head spinning. He waited until her body leaned closer—without her permission—and her face turned up in invitation.

She couldn't deny it. Her eyes were drawn to him whenever he was anywhere in sight. Her body was drawn to him whenever he was near. It could be so sweet, so good, but something about Sam Winchester scared her senseless. She wanted to help him, protect him, touch him. She wanted to know who Sam Winchester was, but part of her was afraid to find out. The power of her own emotions scared her. She'd never felt so drawn to anyone the way she was drawn to this man. She wished she knew what he wanted from her.

His kiss was warm and searching. God help her, she could feel her lips melting into his. His large hands engulfed either side of her face, pulling her in, bringing her body closer to his, and she felt her body yearn for him. He broke the kiss, leaning back just a fraction, and gazed down at her.

He had the most mysterious eyes. They had an exotic slant accentuated by dark, perfectly shaped brows that winged out, making the slant more pronounced. She could never quite figure out the color of his eyes. They seemed to change to suit whatever colors were around him. Maybe it was the light or his mood that made them change. Now, they were dark, his black pupils wide and the irises around them a ring of blue, green and golden flecks. His eyes were mesmerizing, a secret invitation meant only for her.

She reached out with her tongue to taste him, lightly running it along the seam of his lips. She had precious little experience. It was instinct that drove her actions. When he open to her, she ran her tongue along the ridges of his teeth and felt his tongue touch hers before she withdrew and he chased after her, plunging into her mouth. Once within her, his tongue explored the depths of her mouth, their lips locking together. He teased along her teeth, and when his tongue ran along the ridges on the roof of her mouth, she shivered.

She could feel hard body beneath her fingers and ridges of muscle flex as she ran her fingers along his side. It felt so right to touch his body and feel him react to her touch. She couldn't stop her hands from tracing up along his back, and she felt rather than heard the groan he held inside him.

He pulled away from her mouth again, his eyes boring into hers. "Good kiss," he whispered.

"Oh, yeah," she whispered back stupidly. "Really good kiss."

He pressed her cheek against his chest, holding her there with one big hand while his other hand slid along her back, coming to rest on her hip. He laid his cheek on her head. Sparks flew down her spine when she felt him inhale and realized he was breathing in the scent of her. It was intoxicating to know she was affecting him so strongly.

He began to move, and her body pressed close against his. They swayed together in rhythm to some imagined music. His body felt warm and safe. Something in the way he held her and moved slowly against her—the hard line of his arousal pushing against her—made her feel special, treasured, loved. She moved closer, pressing against him in slow rhythm. This was heaven, and her body was on fire for him.

Her phone chirped with an incoming message. She groaned, not wanting to break the spell she was under.

"You need to get that?" The sound of his deep voice vibrated through her.

"I really don't," she sighed.

His arms tightened around her. "Good," he whispered. "I don't want to let you go yet."

* * *

Bill Richards climbed the steps to his daughter's house. He'd gotten up early to fetch their horses from the ranch and load them into the trailer. He looked forward to the days that he and Kaya worked together. He was proud that she was so smart and dedicated to the forest and the research it took to keep it healthy. It was his greatest source of joy that his daughter loved the land as much as he did and that they could share that love.

Bill knocked, called out Kaya's name and waited for her response. He heard movement and voices, so he knocked again. "Kaya?"

The door flew open. "Dad?" Kaya was flushed beet red, and behind her stood a tall young man, one Bill had seen a few times at Aspen Ridge. The young man's face was flushed as red as Kaya's, and Bill had the unmistakable impression that he'd interrupted something—something between his daughter and a ranch hand, someone he didn't know. The man was most likely a transient, and it astonished him that Kaya would become involved with a drifter. There was no future in it and he thought he knew his daughter better than that.

The younger man's eyes met Bill's directly. He was flushed with embarrassment, but he was not cowering. He seemed to square his shoulders as if preparing to meet an assault head on. Bill was impressed by his size, but it was his refusal to retreat in the face of what could be a very uncomfortable situation that Bill could respect.

"Dad, this is Sam Winchester. Sam, this is my dad, Bill Richards." Kaya made the introductions, then turned to Bill. "We were just finishing breakfast."

Sam stepped forward and extended his hand for a shake. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Richards."

"Call me Bill." He took Sam's hand in a firm grip, then turned to Kaya. "We're supposed to go up the mountains to gather data today. Did you forget?" He took in her clothes, as well as Sam's, and deduced they were the clothes each of them had worn the night before—and from the state of them, probably slept in.

"Oh. Sorry, Dad." Kaya smoothed down her low-cut top and shifted nervously from one foot to the other, glancing at Sam. "I didn't forget. It just sorta slipped up on me. I'll go change." She turned to Sam. "I'm sorry. I have to go. It's my job. I—"

"Of course." Sam started to reach for her but pulled his hand back to his side. Something passed between them, something Bill was sure he didn't like.

"I'll just be a minute." She looked from her father to Sam and back again before she darted down the hall toward her bedroom, leaving the two men with each other.

"I've seen you around at the ranch, Sam," Bill hedged. "You're a ranch hand?" This man obviously wasn't good enough for Kaya. She deserved better. It was hardly a living. Not that being a ranger paid very well, but still. At least it was an educated profession. This man was a drifter, and it raised Bill's hackles more than a little. He'd warned her away from this man.

"I work part time at the ranch, and I'm a full-time security officer at the hospital," Sam said.

"That's an odd combination, security officer and ranch hand."

Sam gave a somewhat vague explanation. "Dr. Hanson was kind enough to let me barter labor on the ranch to pay off what I owe her for treatment. I had an emergency, and she treated me."

"Kaya told me about what happened," Bill admitted. "She's told me a lot about you, Sam." That seemed to make Sam's stoic nature waver just a bit. _What was the man afraid of him knowing? Was there something more that Kaya hadn't told him? _

Bill Richards liked to think of himself as a fair-minded man, but he wasn't so sure about Sam Winchester. He thought he could feel trouble lurking just around the corner with this one, and, really, it was the first man Kaya had ever seemed to have strong feelings for. It was the first time Bill'd had to face the possibility that he would have to share his daughter's affection with another man. He knew it was inevitable, but he didn't like the feel of it.

"It wasn't my best moment." Sam looked away as if admitting to his trouble was difficult for him. "I'm better now."

"Everyone has troubles. That's a part of life no one can escape. What matters is how you face those troubles, whether or not you let those troubles drive you to despair."

Sam stared at him speechless, his eyes questioning. Bill knew he had hit a nerve in the young man, a truth that needed to be faced. It concerned him, not just for Kaya's sake, but for Sam's sake as well. He knew, despite any objections he might have about Sam, Kaya was a smart woman. He would have to trust his daughter's judgment.

"I'm glad to have met you, Sam. I'll wait outside for Kaya." Bill dismissed himself with a nod.

* * *

Sam spent the rest of the day in a tailspin. Bill's words haunted him. He didn't know where he stood with Kaya's dad or how much it would matter to her what her dad thought. Sam knew she had feelings for him. He could feel it in her, and he had feelings for her.

He was drawn to her. His eyes had found her in a far dark corner where he shouldn't have been able to notice her at all. It wasn't something she was doing, not a spell, not something evil or supernatural. He was sure of that now. It was in him. It was his desire, and it was so beautifully natural.

He'd fallen asleep the night before, contented with the weight of her body on him. He'd cradled her in his arms while she slept, felt the warmth of her soft woman's touch. It had been so long. He didn't care that she was drunk, didn't care that she was hungover and grouchy the next morning. He didn't mind that she threw up or the makeup that marred her beautiful eyes.

The kiss they'd shared that morning, the feel of her body pressed against his, was electrifying. The look in her eyes told him everything. She was as lost in that kiss as he was, and he wanted more. No matter what Bill Richards may think of him, Sam wanted more.

...

_**TBC**_


	7. The Dead Can't Speak

_**Many thanks to Sam's Folly for her helpful suggestions and grammar vigilance. You are awesome!**_

_**Thanks for all the comments, followers and favorites. **_

* * *

_**Soul Survivor**_

_**Chapter Seven - The Dead Can't Speak**_

…**...**...

_But the dead can't speak, and there's nothing left to say anyway. _

_Chalk Outline - Three Days Grace_

Sam waited while Kaya changed into her uniform and packed her bag. He refused to leave before he saw her once more. He wanted to see her face—wanted to look into her eyes. He had to know how this encounter had affected her. Would she regret the night or the morning? Did she feel it like he did? He could still taste her on his lips. Did his taste linger on her lips? Did that kiss burn in her like it did in him?

Their parting was brief. She apologized again for being drunk last night, being a mess this morning, and then having to leave without much chance to say goodbye. He reassured her that he understood. She took his hands in hers and he gazed down into her eyes. Long dark lashes framed them. She wore no makeup, and he thought she was more beautiful without it. She smiled, but it was bittersweet, and he longed to see the full, joyful smile he knew would transform her whole face.

He freed a hand from her grasp and let his fingers play in one of her long braids, tracing the pattern down to the leather strip that held it in place. She stepped closer and tilted her head higher in clear invitation. The kiss was brief, soft and innocent. She broke away from him before he had a chance to reach out and pull her closer, before he could deepen the kiss to make it special—memorable.

They walked out of the house together, their bodies close but not touching. He wanted to take her hand but could feel the unease rolling off of her in waves. If only they'd had more time before her father broke into the moment.

When they reached her father's truck, he whispered her name. She turned to face him. He could see Bill behind the wheel, and he nodded an acknowledgment to him. Bill nodded back, but neither man spoke.

"I'm sorry, Sam," she told him again. "I have to go. It's my job."

"Yeah," he answered flatly. He wanted her to reach for him, to know for sure that she felt something.

"Another time." She hesitated, and Sam thought maybe . . . but she turned and stepped up into the truck, looking back at him as she closed the door.

He watched as Bill drove them away. Penny's copper-colored hindquarters and dark tail were visible in the back of the trailer. He knew Bill's horse as well, It-a-do, an even-tempered paint gelding. Sam had groomed both horses many times.

Sam didn't think he'd impressed Kaya's father. He felt like the kid who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Bill Richards hadn't been particularly rude, but he seemed cautious—suspicious. Why wouldn't he be? He didn't know Sam, and what little he knew about Sam wasn't particularly flattering.

Bill's words were the kind of thing Bobby might say to him. Bobby had a way of digging down and pointing to the truth of things, and it seemed Bill Richards was that kind of man. He'd left Sam with something to think about, and Sam wondered what words he would give to his daughter to think about. Sam knew he wasn't good enough for Kaya. He had little to offer—no home, except a ragged cabin deep in the woods and a couple of poor-paying jobs.

He gave a heavy sigh and climbed into his truck. He thought he should text Kaya, but he realized he didn't have her number. He knew where to find it. She'd given him a card the first time they met. It had her number, and it was in the cabin. Sam closed his eyes, feeling a strained grimace pull at his face. He grasped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. He hadn't been to the cabin since he was taken out of it, nearly dead.

"_What matters is how you face those troubles. Whether or not you let those troubles drive you to despair."_

Bill's words echoed in his mind. There was no doubt that Sam had been driven to despair. Apparently, Kaya's father had seen it in Sam or had guessed it from what Kaya had told him. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time for Sam to face the troubles that had driven him to despair. Loosening his grip on the steering wheel, he let his hands fall to his lap.

The last place on earth Sam wanted to go was the cabin, and his hand shook as he pulled his truck key out of his pocket and fumbled it into the ignition. Dread welled up inside him, dark and hungry to devour his courage and leave him frozen in place. But Sam turned the key, and the truck's engine whined to life. If he wanted to find Kaya's number, he would have to go to the cabin, and he would have to face what he left behind there.

* * *

The Impala was waiting in front of the cabin, quiet and cold, when Sam's truck rounded the last curve in the road. She was covered with dead leaves, pine needles and dirt. He'd neglected her, neglected Dean's baby.

"_Take care of my wheels."_

"Jesus, Dean. I'm sorry." Sam began to brush away the debris from the Impala's hood. She'd been snowed on, rained on and ignored for almost three months. Dean would be furious. Dad would be furious. Sam swept his hands across the car faster, digging debris out of all the nooks and crannies where it had piled up. It seemed there were hundreds of leaves, twigs, cones and needles stuffed everywhere. Dirt and grime was caked onto the surface. The Impala had never been such a mess.

"_Take care of my wheels."_

Sam's gut clenched. "I got it, Dean. I'm sorry. I can fix it." He had to get the Impala cleaned up, and God help him, if he couldn't get the car running, there would be hell to pay. Dean would be pissed. Sam knew he had to get Baby back in shape. He couldn't let Dean see it like this. He just couldn't let Dean see his baby in such a hopeless state. Dean had to know that Sam would take care of her. He had to know Sam would fix her.

Sam moved around the Impala, furiously picking and digging debris out of every exposed place it was possible for the trash to settle. The white-hot fear in him drove him to pull blindly at pieces stuck to the car, panicking when he thought he might have chipped the paint. Tears welled in his eyes. He should never have left the Impala. He should have come back for her. He should have taken care of her. He should have taken care of Dean. He'd failed. Again.

Once he cleared the surface, he raced into the cabin to get water. Never mind that it was thirty degrees outside. Baby needed a bath. He'd have to heat the water for her and wash her bit by bit. He could do that. He had to.

In his hurry, Sam pushed open the cabin door so hard it banged against the wall. The sound echoed through the empty cabin, bringing him to an abrupt halt. He stood in the doorway staring into the dark interior. It was just as he left it, scrubbed and cleaned. Dad had been angry that Sam had let himself and the place go—angry to find Sam living in filth—and he'd driven Sam hard to GI the place. Dad didn't know Sam's every waking moment for weeks had been spent trying to find out what happened to Dean. He couldn't explain it to Dad. Dad didn't listen to excuses.

_Dad's dead._ _He can't be angry_. Sam rubbed his hand over his face. He felt sick to think of how long he'd holed up in this cabin listening to the voices in his head. _It's me. It's in my head._ _Dad's not here. He never was here. He's never been here._

Suddenly, Sam felt calmer as understanding began to dawn on him. He stepped into the dark cold interior, as cold in the cabin as it was outside. His breath fogged through his numb fingers as he huffed into them, trying to warm them. He stepped over to the small desk that sat near a shaded window and turned on the one lamp. It was bright and lit up the room with a warm glow. He lit a fire in the woodstove, warming his hands before he closed the door and waited for the cabin to warm up a little.

There were blankets on the floor, piled up like a nest, and Sam realized this was where Kaya had found him. She'd covered him with those blankets and warmed his body. He didn't remember it, but he knew she'd saved his life. He picked up the blankets, folding each one, and took them to the bedroom, laying them on the bed.

He shouldn't have let himself get in such a state. He should have known better. He put more wood on the fire, bringing it to a roar and warming himself against the intensity of its heat. He thought about Kaya. She was kind and smart. Smart enough to figure out that he was in trouble and kind enough to care about a stranger, going out of her way to save him from himself.

Kaya was strong and self-confident. Sam smiled to himself. He liked that she was independent. And she was beautiful, soft and warm. He closed his eyes and remembered her body pressed tightly against his. He could still taste her mouth, smell her. Kaya was everything he'd wanted for so long. She was normal, living a normal life in a normal world. He wanted that. He wanted her.

Sam Winchester wanted normal. He'd always wanted normal. Instead, he got fucked up. His whole life had been one long disaster. The harder he tried for normal, the more fucked up things got. Sam snorted as bitter, angry bile rose up in him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth and an angry grimace on his face.

He paced across the floor of the small cabin, moving from one wall to the other and turning into yet another wall. He finally stopped at the situation wall. Staring at the uninformative, patternless mass of useless information, he huffed out a tortured sound somewhere between a growl and a laugh.

_It's a situation, all right. A stupid, useless situation._ "Fuck!" Sam's fingers curled around one pin after another as he ripped them from the wall, along with the colorful strings that connected them. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He threw handfuls of pins, string, photos and news clippings across the room.

"I didn't ask for this shit! None of it!" He ripped the newspaper clippings and computer printouts from the wall, tearing them into shreds. "I didn't ask for the demon blood. I didn't want the training." He heaved deep sobs, and his lips curled in anger. "I didn't kill Jess!" Sam beat his fist against the wall. "You did this. You and Dad. I never wanted this life. It's your fault." He drew in a ragged breath. "You wouldn't let me go. You have to let me go," he pleaded. "Let me go."

He slumped to the floor and cried, his face buried in his hands.

"_It's what Dad wants."_

"Dean, stop," Sam pleaded. "Dad's dead."

"_He wants us to keep hunting, carry on the family business."_

"No."

"_Keep hunting, Sammy. Remember what Dad taught you."_

"No,Dean."

"_Remember what I taught you, Sammy. Keep fighting."_

"I can't. You're gone, Dean. You're—" A painful sob stuck in Sam's throat, and he felt as if a cold hand clamped across his mouth.

"_Keep hunting. Keep fighting,"_ Dean's voice demanded.

"Not without you. I can't."

"_Yes, you can."_

"I won't," Sam fired back. "There's no reason to hunt anymore. There is no family business!" he yelled. "There is no more family. Dad's dead. Bobby's dead." Rage flared up in Sam—white-hot—burning through him until he finally screamed the words out. "You're dead, Dean!" Something in Sam broke. He'd refused to admit it for so long—wouldn't let the words pass his lips, although he'd felt it in his heart. Dean was dead—just as dead as he'd been when he was dragged into Hell, and there was nothing Sam could do about it. This time, there was no angel to bring Dean back.

Sam breathed a deep, cleansing breath. He reached down and picked up one of the many pieces of paper strewn around the floor—a newspaper clipping—ripped from the wall in anger. Rising to his feet, he took it to the woodstove, opened the door, and tossed it into the fire.

"I'm sorry, Dean." Sam picked up another piece—a photograph—and tossed it into the fire. "I didn't see it coming. I didn't know that killing Dick Roman would kill you, too. How could I have known that?" He picked up another piece. "You're my brother, and I'd do anything for you. But you're gone." The words burned his throat as they burned his soul. He tossed yet another piece of the scattered situation board into the fire and stood for a moment to watch it burn away to ash.

"There's nothing I can do, Dean." Sam worked his way through all the scattered pieces of paper—useless little scraps of the grand plan. "I can't bring you back. I have to learn to live without you." He finally threw the last scrap on the fire. "And you have to let me go. I've got to live. I want to live." Silent tears rolled down Sam's face. "I miss you, Dean, and I'll always have an empty place in my soul, but this is my chance. I want to make a normal life, and I can't do it if you don't let me go."

Sam woke the next morning, Monday morning, curled up on the rundown couch as he had so many mornings. But this morning was different. His mind was clear. The cabin was warm from the well-tended woodstove. He should be back at the ranch, should have been back yesterday, but Frank would just have to understand.

Sam stretched his long arms toward the ceiling, arching his back and pulling his muscles taut. As he dressed, layering up for the cold, Sam's eyes fell on the large map covering the wall that was the situation board. It was bare, waiting silently for new bits of information, new ideas, a new plan. He stepped out of the front door onto the small porch, and his eyes fell on the Impala, waiting silently to be revived, to be cared for, to be driven into a new life.

Sam didn't stop at the Impala, and he walked past his beat-up little truck. He breathed in the fresh air of the forest, cold and clear. It was invigorating. As he walked along the mile-long trail, he began to pick up the pace. His feet crunched the littered pathway, and he looked up into the trees, covered with a light dusting of winter snow. All of them had given up the dead parts, letting each dried leaf, needle and branch fall away. They made a place for new life that Sam knew would come in the spring. The forest was alive, living and dying in its own cycle.

As he neared Fish Lake, he heard the piercing cry of a hawk, and his eyes scanned the sky when he stepped out of the forest near the water's edge. The hawk was high above the water, soaring out above the forest and then circling back over the lake. It was beautiful and Sam felt alive and thankful to witness this majestic bird.

Sam stared in awe at the bird until a strange feeling began to niggle at the back of his mind. Someone else was here watching him. He brought his gaze down to the water's edge and saw a large black wolf. The two of them stared at each other. Sam wondered what the wolf would do. Obviously, the wolf came to the lake for a drink. He seemed to be alone, and Sam thought he was a little thin. If the wolf's thinness was noticeable while it was still autumn, and if he was alone, it would be a long winter for him. Sam felt sorry that the animal would have a long hard struggle.

Sam wasn't sure what to do. The wolf didn't seem tense, more like he was curious. Sam wanted to leave the wolf to finish his morning drink in peace, but he didn't want to trigger the wolf into any kind of action. If he turned and walked away, he wondered if the wolf would follow. If the wolf gave chase, there was no way Sam could outrun a full-grown wolf, thin or not, and he didn't want to try. He thought about backing away slowly or speaking softly to try to keep the wolf calm. In the end, the wolf lost interest and went back to filling his belly with fresh water.

The hawk shrieked above, and Sam remained planted until the wolf turned his back and disappeared into the forest.

* * *

The ranger station was a solidly built cabin four hours to the southeast of Whitefish. Once they left the paved roads—and civilization—the going was slow and rough. The dirt roads narrowed down to barely traveled twin tire ruts. On the last leg of the journey, Kaya rode Penny and led It-a-do while Bill navigated his old rugged truck, with its strong diesel engine and heavy, all terrain tires, up to the cabin. Kaya would much rather ride the last leg on her horse than bounce around in the truck, but the main reason she walked the horses was for their own comfort, so they wouldn't feel insecure on a rough ride in the trailer.

The cabin was well furnished with modern conveniences, including a refrigerator, freezer and stove, as well as a washer and dryer and a hot water heater, all powered by solar panels on the roof. It was far from roughing it, but it was also far from everywhere.

There was a barn for the horses with eight stalls, not that there were ever eight horses there at the same time—or eight rangers, for that matter. But the cabin had a large kitchen, which also served as a common room, and two bedrooms, more accurately called bunk rooms. Each room had four twin-size beds with a chest at the foot. Maybe, at one time, there'd been enough rangers to use all this space but not since Kaya could remember.

She used to come up to this station with her father when she was just a girl for overnight trips, and since she'd become a ranger, she'd been coming up here with him at least twice a year over the past five years. This was the first time she would not ride side by side with him. Instead, they would survey and gather data separately.

Kaya went out early, with the first faint light of day, to feed the horses. She intended to give Penny just enough time to eat before she saddled her up and headed out. Once Penny had eaten, Kaya led her out of her stall to the hitching post.

Kaya struggled with Penny to take the bit. "Penny, seriously?" The horse was beyond being "out-of-sorts." She snorted and pulled away, swishing her tail and stomping. Kaya knew once she got Penny out on the trail she would be well behaved, like she always was, but this trip was different. It-a-do, Bill's horse, was a gelding and a barn mate. He and Penny got along beautifully, but there was a strange stallion in the barn this time, and Penny was definitely aware of him. She wasn't in heat, but apparently she needed to make her presence known.

The stallion was a beautiful black mustang named Koda, with a long flowing mane and tail that harkened back to his Spanish ancestors. He belonged to Mark Longrider, a photographer who was here to ride along with the rangers. He hoped to be able to sell his photographs to the park service, or better yet, a nature magazine like National Geographic. His stallion and the effect it had on Penny was the reason Kaya and her father were not riding together, and Mark was riding with Bill. Penny would be too much to manage with her mind on the strange new stallion all day.

A loud whinny came from the barn. Penny wasn't the only one who needed to make her presence known.

Persistence paid off for Kaya, and she finally got Penny bridled and saddled. She swung up into the saddle just as her phone hummed with an incoming text. Kaya gazed at the unknown number and drew a blank as she tried to guess who would be texting her. Someone obviously not in her phone book. She opened the text.

_I owe u bfast x 2. Dinner instead?_

Something stirred deep inside—a little thrill that shot through her.

She typed: _Sam? _

_How many ppl owe u bfast?_

She smiled and replied, _Nvr mind that. Only cooked bfast 4u once & u ddnt eat it. U made 2nd bfast so we r even._

There was a long pause. Kaya glanced at the two precious signal bars on her phone as they winked tenuously. The signal was weak. What if she couldn't get through? He would think she was trying to ditch him. She reread her last text, rolling her eyes. She didn't mean it to sound like that. The phone lay in her hands—a quiet, lifeless thing—as she frowned at it.

Finally, a response bleeped in. _Dinner 2nite n e way?_

Relief spread through her and her smile was back. He was asking her on a date. Her smile faded again. Too bad she would be on the range for the rest of the week.

_In mountains w dad, _she answered._ Field research. Remember? My job._

_Still? Thought it was a day trip._

_A week._

_When r u back?_

_Sunday aftrn. R u off? _ she texted hopefully.

_Yes. Dinner then?_

_K_

_Gr8. C u then. _

Kaya stared at Sam's last text._ Gr8._ She pictured his face, the strong angular jaw, high cheekbones and those beautiful hazel eyes that seemed to be a different color every time she looked at him. The smile she saw in her mind's eye was captivating—bright white teeth framed by dimples that made the man look just a little mischievous. She remembered the feel of his lips as they pressed against hers, and his tongue . . . Desire flooded her body and she shivered.

"You have a very expressive face."

Kaya looked up from her phone, startled. Mark Longrider leaned against the barn door frame with a teasing smile on his face. His dark eyes seemed to peer deep, beyond what she wanted him to see.

"Just texting a friend." She shifted nervously in her saddle and slipped her phone into her pocket.

"I'm surprised you can get reception out here." Mark's smile was easy and friendly. He'd kind of sneaked up on her, watching her as she texted—invading a private moment. How had she not noticed him? Yeah, that wasn't stalkerish at all.

She shrugged. "The signal's a little sketchy at the best of times. Sometimes there's no signal at all."

He nodded. "I see." She couldn't help the heat that rose in her belly. Mark was handsome, tall and dark. His bronze skin—so like her father's—was flawless across his high cheekbones and smooth face. He wore his long black hair in braids with a headband rather than a hat. She couldn't help but notice he was one hot native.

Another loud whinny came from the barn, and Penny answered with a snort and a shimmy that Kaya could feel even through the thick leather of her saddle.

"Sorry. I guess he makes her nervous," Mark apologized with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

"She's not nervous," Kaya answered too quickly, and she blushed when she noticed his eyes widen in question. "It's only natural with a new stallion around."

"Yeah." His teasing smile might have been just a little irritating.

"Come on, girl." Kaya nudged Penny forward, urging her onto the road quickly. "I guess I can understand how you feel," she whispered to the horse when she was sure she was out of earshot from Mark, and then she pushed Penny into an easy canter. It was going to be a long week.

* * *

"Jack," Sam huffed, "how'd you get so many tangles in your tail?" He stuck the brush he'd been using under his arm, trapping it next to his body as he used his hands to work out a particularly big tangle. "You're kind of a mess today."

He talked continuously to the horse in a soft voice as he groomed him. He'd brushed the horse's coat thoroughly, bringing up a healthy shine to the Mustang's black coat before moving to the tail. Jack stomped restlessly.

"I know," Sam soothed. "You've got a big knot here that I've got to work out." He combed through the hair with his fingers, deftly freeing up strands until he had most of them free and could use the brush to work out the smaller tangles.

Jack jerked his tail, swishing it out of Sam's hands. "Yeah, you're welcome." Sam laughed and caught the tail to finish his grooming.

"Well, I see you finally decided to show up." Sam turned at the gruff voice to see Frank leaning against the fence. "'Sposed to be back yesterday morning. Horses don't feed themselves." Frank snorted. "And they damn sure don't muck out their own stalls."

"Sorry . . . I . . . Something came up," Sam continued to pick carefully at Jack's tail, but he was eyeing Frank intently. The man's voice was a little rougher than usual and he didn't seem to have his usual hint of a tease. He was angry. Sam hadn't expected that.

"You've worked here long enough—"

"Frank, I'm sorry. It won't happen—"

"Let me finish, Sam." Frank held up his hand with a deep sigh. "The good news is you've worked here long enough to pay off your debt to Dr. Hanson. You're free and clear." His watery blue eyes gazed intently at Sam.

"And the bad news?" Sam let Jack's tail slip out of his hands as he returned Frank's stare.

"I think it's bad news, but you may not think of it that way. You'll have a lot more free time." There was a hint of an uncertain smile under Frank's heavy mustache as if he thought Sam might actually like what was coming next.

Sam tensed. He knew what was coming, and he knew he wasn't going to like it.

Any illusions Frank might have had seemed to disappear as he watched Sam's reaction. "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't keep you on."

Sam stood frozen. He didn't want to leave the ranch. He liked the work. He needed the work. He didn't want free time. He couldn't handle free time. If he couldn't stay at the ranch, he have to find another place to live—another motel in a lifetime of seedy motel rooms—or worse yet he'd have to face the cabin again.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	8. Breaking Through

_My grateful thanks to Sam's folly for beta'ing this chapter. Her insights and suggestions along with her writing skills and knowledge have made this chapter and the story so far much better. She has challenged me and taught me so much._

* * *

_I apologize for keeping you waiting so long for this chapter. It was not my intention, but life has a way of getting very busy sometimes. In this case, the busy has all been good. Creator has blessed me and sometimes you just have to take the time to live and enjoy the blessings that come your way. No other excuses than that._

* * *

_As always, thanks for commenting, following and favoriting my story. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Soul Survivor**

**Chapter Eight – Breaking Through**

**...**

_Standing in the dark, I can see your shadow. You're the only light that's breaking through the window._

_..._

_The High Road – Three Days Grace_

* * *

Thanksgiving morning Sam pulled into the hospital's employee parking lot with the faint light of dawn filtering through the overcast sky. It was cold, what Phil called freeze-your-ass-off cold. Sam's breath billowed out in a cloud of vapor as he slammed the car door. The familiar creak of the Impala's door was comforting to him as it echoed across the mostly empty lot. Funny how a sound can feel like home.

"Nice ride, Winchester." Phil let out an admiring whistle as he ran his hand lightly along the Impala's reflective black surface. "Damn sight better than that rusty old truck of yours. Where did you get this sweet baby?"

"It's my brother's car . . . _was_ my brother's car." Sam struggled against the spasm in his throat and the sudden burning in his eyes. He forced air through the tight knot as he cleared his throat and looked squarely at Phil. "It was my dad's pride and joy until he gave it to my brother."

"I imagine your brother was proud of it too."

"Yeah." Sam huffed out a painful laugh. "He loved this car. He was obsessed with it."

Realization dawned on Phil's face. "Your brother, did he . . .?"

"I lost him." Sam was irritated at having to say it out loud. It seemed fairly obvious. Couldn't Phil just let it be? Did he have to ask and make Sam acknowledge the unbearable truth again? "He's dead." There they were—the words he hated so badly—falling flatly from his mouth. _Satisfied? _he almost hissed at Phil.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Sam." Phil grasped Sam's arm and squeezed it warmly.

Sam gazed briefly at the man's hand on his arm before his eyes moved away, staring blindly across the rows of cars.

It was meant to be a kindness, and Sam was humbled by the thought. All these weeks—how long had it been? three months? longer?—it was the first time he'd heard those words. It was the first time anybody had told him they were sorry for his loss, for his pain. It should be comforting. It should help him somehow for someone to acknowledge his pain, to understand the devastation Dean's death had caused him. It was awful and painful and wrong. He'd said the same so many times to so many people over the years. Now he knew how empty and hollow those words sounded.

Words didn't help. Sympathy from a stranger didn't help. Nothing helped. He wondered if the words would be comforting if they came from a friend or family member. It didn't matter. There was no family—they were all dead—and he didn't have any friends. All of them were dead, too.

Sam cleared his throat and pushed his bitterness down deep like Dean always told him to do.

"_You bury it. That's what we do, Sammy. That's how you keep going. You take all that crap, and you forget about it."_

Sam was sure this was one thing he couldn't forget about. Dean's death was a raw festering wound on his soul that would never heal. It would always be with him, lying just under the surface, waiting to erupt in a painful swell of grief. He would never be free of it, but Sam was a Winchester. He would bury the pain, and he would keep going because that's what Winchesters do.

"Sam?" Phil's voice cut through Sam's morbid thoughts and brought him back to the present.

"Thanks. I . . . um. . . have to run or I'll be late." Sam hurried toward the hospital's back entrance. He needed to get away from Phil and his friendly, nosy questions.

"Sam?" Phil called to Sam's retreating back.

Phil was a good guy. All of the people Sam worked with at the hospital were good people. They wanted nothing more than to be friends. That thought slowed Sam's retreat from this man who wanted to help. Sam knew he needed friends if he was going to survive. Things never went well when he was alone. In fact, things went very wrong when he was alone. He couldn't afford to screw up his life this time. Because this time, he didn't have Dean to stand by him like he always did. This time, he didn't have Dean to help him put his life back together.

As he reached the entrance to the hospital, he turned back to Phil. "See you at lunch," he called, and Phil smiled and waved.

* * *

"Sam, you should come over for dinner tonight. We're having the whole turkey and stuffing deal." Rosemary edged closer to Sam in the lunchroom booth. Her thigh rubbed against his, and she reached to grab a cucumber off his salad as if it was the most natural thing for her to do, to share his food. She smiled up at him, the cucumber disappearing into her bright smile with a crunch. Her pale blue eyes focused on him with what Sam thought was a clear invitation, maybe a challenge.

He shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Phil, who shrugged and took a big bite of his cheeseburger.

"My mom always cooks loads of food—way too much," Rosemary continued. "If she knew you were by yourself with no family on Thanksgiving and I didn't bring you home, she'd kill me."

"Well, we couldn't have a murder on our hands," Phil smirked. "I'd hate to see your mom in trouble."

"Don't worry." Rosemary grinned at him and snatched a french fry from his plate. "You know you're expected."

Phil grinned back at her. "And I wouldn't miss your mom's cooking."

Sam cleared his throat. He didn't know exactly how to take these two. They tossed comments and looks at each other with an ease and affection that was beyond any work relationship. And Sam sensed something a little edgy about Phil that wasn't his usual easy way. If that was the case, if their relationship was something more, Sam couldn't figure out why she was flirting with him in front of Phil. "Thanks for the invitation," Sam said, "but I'm working a double. I don't get off until eleven-thirty." He quickly shoved a forkful of salad into his mouth.

"On Thanksgiving?" Rosemary looked shocked. "Your boss made you—"

"She didn't make me," Sam said, cutting her off quickly. He swallowed his half-chewed lettuce and nearly choked. "I volunteered so Roger could be with his family, and I need the money. It's time-and-a-half.

"Damn," Phil swore around the mouthful of burger before he swallowed it. "You getting up at o-dark-thirty to feed the horses, too?"

"No. Not working at the ranch anymore, but just the same, I'll be running on empty when I get off tonight." He shifted in his seat again. Rosemary was still inching closer. She was watching Sam, and Phil was watching her. Sam was feeling like he was in the middle of something he didn't want and didn't ask for.

When his phone rang and someone needed a locked door opened somewhere in the office area, he was thankful. "I gotta go." He grabbed his tray and hurried to the trash bin with his mostly uneaten salad.

* * *

Kaya sat on Penny's back and surveyed the valley that stretched out below her. She was perched on a small rise that offered her a view of the entire herd of female and young bison but kept her close enough to count each individual beast. It was late in the season, and a light snow covered the open meadow. Winter would bring heavier snows, and the old and weak bison would be hard-pressed to survive. But the herd would thrive and grow with the addition of new calves in the spring.

Kaya loved this. She loved being out in nature, close to Mother Earth and far from the trappings of civilization. She watched the clouds of vapor billow in the cold air as the bison snorted. The sound of their low grunts was soothing in the still quiet of the wilderness, and snow flew out as they swung their massive heads from side to side, uncovering grass to forage. Penny shifted restlessly beneath Kaya and she swayed with the movement, their two bodies so comfortable together, so used to each other that they moved as one without effort.

The herd moved about peacefully, and Kaya wrote down her location and the number of the heard before slipping the small notebook and pencil into her saddlebag. It was her job to monitor the health of the herd, and part of that was documenting its growth. She had her job, and she was good at it, but when she was alone in the wild, she often let her thoughts roam free.

Sitting in this timeless place, watching this endless and ancient play of life it was easy to let her imagination slip into the past. If it were a hundred years ago, this herd would mean something very different. She imagined Mark Longrider pushing his horse down the crest of the rise, racing alongside the running bison with bow and arrow and spear. He rode bareback—nothing between him and his horse but a blanket and the buckskin he was wearing—long strides of perfect union between man and horse. His long braids flew out behind him, his dark eyes focused on his prey. He was strong and beautiful as he narrowed in on one animal to cut it from the herd.

He made his kill, bringing down a large cow with skill and bravery and a look of determination on his face. He would be honored for his kill and he would feed his kin.

Kaya reaction was visceral. She could feel herself flush at the picture she'd just painted in her head. _What the hell? _She didn't think of Mark that way_. _She didn't want to think of Mark that way. But she couldn't deny her body was aching with need. _It was a daydream. Nothing more. It didn't mean anything._

Kaya was restless. In spite of the cold, her skin prickled with a thin sheen of sweat. She longed to push Penny hard, into a full run across the field forcing the image of Mark Longrider out of her head. She wanted to imagine the feeling of running alongside the largest animal on the continent—the mighty Tatanka—feel the ground rumble beneath the thunderous power of the million-strong herd her ancestors hunted. She breathed in the cold, clear air, giving one last glance at the scene below her. Only a few hundred animals made up this herd, but the scene was majestic just the same.

Kaya nudged Penny down into the valley where she skirted along the treeline and the edge of the surrounding mountaintops that enclosed the valley. She observed the bison at closer range, assessing the overall health of the herd. She gave the cows with calves a wide berth so as not to upset them, and the herd ignored her presence, not considering her a threat.

It was nearing sunset when Kaya made her way back to the ranger's cabin. She pulled out her phone pulling up the last text. She had a date with Sam, but she had been daydreaming about Mark. She really wanted the date with Sam. She thought about his kiss, the warmth of his hands when he touched her face, the way his breath was hot across her skin and the low purring sound of his voice, soft in her ear. It was Sam—yes, definitely Sam she wanted.

She reached down and patted Penny's neck. It had been a long day and Penny had been good. Kaya was tired of being in the saddle and she knew Penny was tired as well, but she couldn't resist. She eased Penny into a canter, then a trot, and finally into a full-out run for the last bit of the road home. It was exhilarating. She felt the cold wind biting her face and the strong muscles of the horse beneath her. Penny's stride was long and powerful, and Kaya felt alive and thankful to have a life she loved.

* * *

Sam woke up Friday morning facing a long three-day weekend. He'd tried to get his boss to let him work another day, but she refused. He already had overtime this week plus time-and-a-half for the holiday. She swore he would break her budget, and it was unhealthy for him. He'd managed to sleep until sunlight filled the cabin and fell across his face. Now that he was up, he had no idea what to do with himself.

It didn't take long for Sam to realize that old habits—habits of a lifetime—don't die. They resurface almost without being noticed. So once Sam had cereal with milk from the cold-box on the porch and a big mug of sweet coffee with extra cream, he found himself on the laptop searching for strange happenings. He was searching for a case, and it didn't take him long to find one.

It seemed so straight forward. Kills on the full moon, hearts missing; it was clearly a werewolf. It wasn't far away and the full moon was tomorrow night. Compared to demons, angels, Leviathans, and Lucifer himself, this hunt was a cakewalk. He could take the werewolf out and be back by Sunday morning. That was plenty of time to make his date with Kaya.

As he stared at the computer screen, something began to gnaw at Sam. "_I'm not like you."_ Sam's own teenaged voice echoed in his head along with the memory of how much he'd wanted his life to be different. "_I'm not always gonna be like this."_ Sam screwed his eyes shut tight. He did try. He'd tried so hard. "_I got a full scholarship, Dad. It's a free ride to Stanford."_

"No." Sam slammed the laptop shut. "I don't want this." He picked up his empty mug and walked to the sink, placing the mug in it and gazing out the window above it. The sun was bright outside and he pushed off from the sink, propelling himself toward the door. He grabbed his jacket and a knit hat and gloves that were hanging by the door. He pounded out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him, past the Impala and his old truck, down the path that led to Fish Lake.

The air was crisp and pure and Sam pulled in deep breaths as he ran. The bitter cold ripped at his lungs, but he ignored his body's cries to stop. The cold bled through the fabric of his jacket and jeans, making his skin sting, and he pushed even harder. His face and hands stopped tingling and became numb.

He ran with long strides through the forest, jumping over fallen branches and dodging tree roots. He paid no attention to the light dusting of snow on the evergreens or the thin skin of frost on the path. He saw nothing but a way through the trees, an escape.

Sam ran from everything: the hunt, the cabin, his past—his demons. He ran from the expectations his father had made on his life. He ran from his big brother's demands. He ran from the mistakes he'd made and the demon blood that still coursed through his veins. He ran from the man he had become.

It was a mile to the lake, and when Sam reached its empty shores, it spread out before him like a vast sea, cold and forbidding, trapping him in this place. There was nowhere to go but back, back to the cabin, back to face the life he was left with and the man he had become.

Frustration welled up within him. It seemed he never had a choice—ever. It seemed destiny had a stranglehold on him and he would never find his way out of the life. The life had taken everything, everyone, and he felt imprisoned—chained to it until he died.

Sam screamed. He stretched out his long arms, lifted his head up to the heavens and let out a scream that tore its way from the depths of his soul. It was a long, lonesome sound that echoed through the forest—wild and inhuman.

When there was nothing left in him, he slowly turned, and his gaze wandered back up the path toward the cabin. He heaved a deep sigh and started walking. Suddenly, he heard a howl that echoed back at him through the woods. It was the wolf, the black wolf. He could feel it. In his mind's eye, he could see it near the cabin as clearly as he'd seen it by the lake just days before.

Sam ran again, pulled back to the cabin by the presence of the wolf as strongly as he'd been driven away by his demons.

He heard the wolf snarling before he came in sight of the cabin. As he rounded the last curve in the path, coming out from the thick of the forest, he locked eyes with the wolf. The wolf stood at the edge of the woods on the far side of the cabin, licking his snout. A cloud of white vapor poured out of his nostrils as he huffed at Sam before he turned and trotted off, disappearing into the thick underbrush.

Sam spotted the open lid before he made it to the porch. The wolf had been in the cold-box. No doubt he helped himself to what he found edible.

"Clever boy," Sam laughed. He dropped the lid of the box back in place, not caring what the wolf took, and made his way into the cabin. "You take whatever you need to survive, my friend."

Sam's skin burned and stung as warmth returned to his body, and he rubbed his hands together to relieve the tingling. He put a pot of water on to warm so he could bathe and glanced at the laptop. He had a lot to do today, and none of it involved a werewolf.

* * *

Kaya couldn't help the little thrill of anticipation that ran through her. Since they'd split up and surveyed separately, she and Bill had finished on Friday and she'd packed everything she could last night. She'd gotten up before the sun to feed the horses and pushed the men to be ready to leave the cabin by the first light.

Kaya rode Penny and led It-a-do down to the main road in the gray first light of morning. Mark rode along with her on Koda. The stallion was as high-spirited as he was beautiful. It was almost comical the way both Penny and Koda pushed in turn to lead. Mark laughed and soothed his horse.

"She's not ready for you, boy." He flashed his dark brown eyes and bright smile at Kaya. "Not yet." He patted his stallion while he held Kaya with his intense gaze.

She searched for something to break the uncomfortable tension she felt between them. "I hope you got the pictures you needed. Sorry to cut out a day early."

He seemed to consider before he answered. "I don't think you are. You seem happy to be returning home. Maybe you have someone waiting for you?"

"Maybe," Kaya conceded.

There was that smile of his again. Kaya couldn't deny his smile was warm, even if it did seem a bit smug.

"I'm happy with the shots I got. Hopefully I will be able to show the beauty of this land, and people will understand how important it is to keep it wild. I'd like to show you my pictures when I get them edited. You could tell me what you think."

She hesitated, watching his face. She was never quite sure of his motives. "Yeah, sure."

"I'm not asking just to be nice. Your opinion is important to me, yours and your father's. You are a part of this land and it is a part of you. You know its beauty intimately"—he placed his hand on his chest—"in your heart. You will know if my pictures are true."

Kaya was surprised by his sincerity. The teasing smugness she'd seen before was gone, and now Mark was open and honest, revealing himself and his passion as much as he seemed to understand hers.

"I'd like that," she smiled, "very much."

* * *

Sam heard his phone chirp, announcing that he had a text. He groaned. He was perched on the roof of the cabin in the midst of a project he didn't want to stop. He wanted to get this done while there was still plenty of afternoon sun. There was little doubt who the text was from. It had to be from Kaya. He hoped it was from Kaya. He only knew a handful of people, and none of them texted him. Technically, Kaya had only responded to his text.

Sam sighed and cursed himself for not having the phone in his pocket, but he knew he'd worry and wonder himself sick if he didn't answer, so he secured his tools, unhooked himself from his safety line and climbed down from his perch on the roof, ducking quickly into the cabin to grab his phone.

A smile crept across his face and a warm feeling nestled in his gut. It was Kaya.

_Hi. Workin?_

_No. Long weekend off. _His fingers hovered over the keys (wish you were here) but he didn't type them. _Fixn up cabin, _he typed instead.

_Moving bk up the mtn?_

Sam looked at the screen. There was a reason she was texting him. He knew when someone was fishing for information, but he couldn't quite figure out what she was after.

_Yes. Prob. For now. How's the range?_

_Beautiful. Tiring. Long, hard days. _

Damn texting. If she were here, if he could see her, he'd be able to figure out what she really wanted. Maybe she was having second thoughts and didn't want to go out with him after all. _Still on for tmorro nite? _he typed.

_Def. Looking forward to it._

_Tht u wr hvn 2nd thts. _As soon as he hit send, he regretted it. He sounded so insecure. _Smooth Winchester,_ he groaned.

_No. Just checkin. SYS._

_2morro._

Sam stared at the phone. It was an odd conversation that felt like she was checking up on him. It made her seem possessive. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and shrugged. If that's what it was, he kind of liked the idea.

Two hours later, Sam was finishing up his project on the roof when he heard a vehicle coming up the road. The roar of the engine pierced through the forest and reached his ears long before he could see the car, and he wondered who would be coming out to the cabin. Who even knew he was here or where here was for that matter?

Sam stood up from his kneeling position, stretching his cramped muscles and rubbing his sore knees. He'd been on the roof all morning, finally finishing up just in time to see Kaya's Jeep as it pulled around the last curve and came into sight in front of the cabin.

She had been fishing for information. He was right. She wanted to find out where he was so she could . . . what? Sam's gut clenched. Why didn't she tell him she was home? What was so awful she couldn't tell him over the phone?

She slid out of the Jeep and stopped to retrieve a tote bag from the rear. She didn't look up, so she didn't see him, and he watched silently as she approached the cabin.

"Hey." He spoke so softly he wondered if she heard him, but she hesitated, quickly glancing around, and he spoke a little louder. "Up here."

"Sam?" The dread in him lightened when he saw her smile, the kind of smile that lit up her whole face and made her eyes dance. "God, you look like a giant up there. What are you doing? Roof leaking?"

"No," he answered. He knew she couldn't see his handiwork from where she stood. "Step back a little, and move around to the side." He motioned with his hand toward her left, the side of the roof he was standing on. The look on her face was enough to make him swell with pride, and he felt the warmth of his own smile.

"Sam?" she squeaked. "Really? Solar panels?"

"And a hot water heater." He basked in her approval and the doubts that clouded his thoughts earlier cleared away. He stooped down, packed up his tools and made his way down the ladder. "I just finished with the panels. Your timing is perfect."

"Yeah. Sometimes I get it right."

"Speaking of timing, I thought you weren't coming home until tomorrow." Sam motioned Kaya toward the cabin.

"We finished earlier than we usually do."

He reached out to open the door for her, stepping in after her and closing the door behind them.

She glanced around. "It's nice and warm in here." She turned and smiled approvingly at him.

"Not like the last time you were here?" he questioned. "I actually do know how to keep a fire going, you know."

"I see," she conceded.

"You're not in uniform," he observed. "Is this a social call?"

She held out the tote bag. "I brought you venison stew and apple turnovers."

"What? No leftover turkey and pumpkin pie?"

She set the tote bag down on the little table that Sam couldn't ever remember using, at least not for eating. "You got a pot?" she asked as she pulled out the plastic container with the stew.

He rummaged in the cabinet and found a pot that, like the table, he couldn't remember using before.

Her light mood seemed to have deflated a bit. "Sam, the reason we pick this week to survey is because my dad and I don't celebrate Thanksgiving—or Columbus Day for that matter."

Sam was speechless.

"Think about it," she told him.

"Oh." Sam's mind began to flip through history, and he realized that he never really thought about the fact that Kaya was Native American, and he'd never considered Thanksgiving from a Native American point of view.

"Oh, sorry . . . I . . . we never celebrated holidays much either," he said a little sheepishly. "Although it had more to do with a single dad struggling with two boys and . . ." He stopped and searched his brain frantically. How the hell did he explain the hunting life? " . . . a drinking problem." Not exactly true or fair to his dad, but close enough and believable. "I worked a double shift at the hospital."

"So you didn't have turkey either?" She put the pot full of stew on the woodstove and turned to find a spoon in one of the two drawers in the small kitchen.

"More like Cobb salad, my usual," Sam said. "Don't much care for turkey anyway. But venison stew sounds great."

"I would bet you haven't eaten since early this morning."

"You'd be right." Sam gazed at Kaya. There were times that he felt so at ease with her. She was so honest and forgiving. It lessened the pain and stilled the struggle within him. She was good and kind. She made him feel normal, and he wanted this.

They spent the rest of the afternoon installing the water heater and the refrigerator he'd bought. He swore the process was easier with her reading the instructions to him. She laughed and said that's what she'd done for her dad since she was a little girl.

Sam washed the dishes they'd used as they ate the last of the venison stew. He was up to his elbows in hot soapy water, the first from his new water heater. "You are a daddy's girl, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?" She rinsed and dried the dishes as he handed them to her.

"You mentioned him a few times." He held her look as she took the last plate from him. "Nothing wrong with it, just making an observation."

"We're very close," she admitted. "My mother died when I was only four, and my dad never remarried. I had my grandmother until just a few years ago. Lots of aunts, uncles and cousins, but I guess you're right." She shrugged. "My dad and I are very close."

Sam dunked the pot into the dishwater and began scrubbing it out. "I don't suppose he has a very high opinion of me."

"He doesn't know you, Sam." She put the plates away and turned to him. "I don't know you very well either, for that matter."

"Not yet." He let the water run down the drain. "I'd like you to."

"Well, I know you're good with your hands." She turned and walked away from the kitchen area toward the middle of the room. "Look at what you've done to this place in just a couple of days. You've made some nice improvements."

"Almost livable?" Sam laughed. He followed behind her, wiping his hands and arms on a dish towel, then tossing it back to the sink.

"Yeah." She walked toward the door, reaching for her coat.

Sam moved behind her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. "Don't go."

"It's late, Sam" He could feel her hesitating, her coat hanging from her clenched hands. "I've been up since before the sun, and it's a two-hour drive. It'll be way after—"

"Then stay." He didn't want to be alone, not now, not since she'd been here with him, sharing the day. Doing normal things. The way they'd worked together had felt good. Like a home, a real life. "Please . . . just . . ."

He knew he sounded desperate, and he was.

"Sam, I like you, a lot." She shifted nervously before she focused on his eyes. "But, I don't want to move too fast. I can't, not this soon."

"We won't move too fast," he reasoned. "We can just talk. I have some DVDs. We can watch a movie. If you're tired, you can sleep in the bedroom. I'll sleep on the sofa. I won't . . ." He looked at her, wondering if his desperation seemed as pitiful to her as it sounded to him. He let his hands drop and straightened to his full height, ready for the rejection he knew was coming.

She gazed at him for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then she finally asked. "Will you make some coffee?"

Sam made coffee, and they talked in soft voices, with light touches and smiles that led to gentle kisses. In the end, it seemed Kaya couldn't fight the long day, and her eyes gently fluttered closed as she gave in to sleep.

Sam felt it the moment her body went limp and her breathing evened out to the steady rhythm of sleep. He shifted on the sofa until he found a relatively comfortable position, all the while gently easing Kaya onto his body. He closed his eyes and reveled in the warm weight of her holding him down, grounding him. He began to drift as his breaths mimicked hers, light and easy in slumber.

Far away he heard it—somewhere between wakefulness and sleep—the long lonely howl of the wolf.

* * *

_TBC_


	9. Whatever It Takes

_**Thanks for all the comments, follows and favorites. **_

_I am very sorry to be so long getting this chapter posted, unfortunately I am likely to need a longer time between chapters because life is just so full of business right now, and I have to live it while I have it. Hang in here with me. I do intend to finish and bring us up to the beginning of season 8._

* * *

**Soul Survivor**

**Chapter Nine – Whatever it Takes**

…...

_I'll do whatever it takes to be the mistake you can't live without._

_The High Road – Three Days Grace_

…_..._

_Sam's feet burned, and the ground crumbled beneath him, as if he was running across white hot coals. He felt the __pain __in__ his legs, __his muscles straining__ as he __pounded__ headlong into the dead forest. _

_He recognize__d__ this place, __with its __gray, sterile ground __that __puffed up little clouds __of ash __around his feet as he ran through tall, naked, dark trees. __He'd run through th__is__ colorless, sunless place time a__nd__ time __again__, in dream after dream, always chasing, never catching._

_"Dean!" __He called for his brother._

_Cold, evil eyes followed him. They hated him, __and the force of that hatred __was__ heavy, __pulling against him as he ran, draining his strength.__The evil__ re__ached__out __for __the very thing __in him __it__ hated—__his sou__l__. __Sam felt it bleeding out, felt himself lessening—becoming thin, like vapor that would disappear in a gentle breeze. _

___The forest was alive, and it was determined to keep him from __reaching Dean. It seemed to bar Sam's every turn. Trees shifted, __suddenly appearing in front of him__ blocking his __way__. Underbrush burst into flames searing his skin and throwing him off the path. __It was as if the forest itself served the evil that lived in it—trapping __him__, keeping him away from his brother—__holding __Sam__ while the evil crept ever closer._

_"__Dean!" Sam heard his own weak voice, dry and raspy. He __felt the pull of the forest and the heavy weight of evil __draining __him, and__ he grew weaker a__s he__ struggled to escape the darkness._

_His heart slammed in his chest, beating desperately against the cage of his ribs. He gasped the hot, acrid air into his lungs feeling the searing flesh deep inside his chest. Everything he saw wavered in the thick hot atmosphere. His sight was blurry, and his eyes watered, burning against the heat. But still, he searched desperately as he ran. _

_It was no longer Dean who led him deeper into this place. It was the wolf. Its sorrowful howl pierced through Sam's heart. He saw its distorted shape in the distance. Its golden eyes focused on Sam as it looked back over its shoulder. Sam reached out, as if he could somehow touch the wolf in spite of the distance between them._

"_I'm still here." _

_The wolf's eyes peered deep into Sam's soul._

"_You'll always be here." Sam whispered._

_The wolf turned his face away from Sam and ran deeper into the barren forest._

"_Wait! Wait! Don't go!" He screamed. "No, no, no. Don't leave me!" Sam's hands stretched out before him as he ran. Ignoring the pain, ignoring the burn, he chased after the wolf, running over the scorched earth and through the black forest. _

_It was the loud cry of the hawk that led his eyes upward to see her bright wings against the red sky._

…_..._

Kaya had the distinct feeling of deja vu when she woke up with her face resting on Sam's warm chest his long arms clinging to her, his fingers softly, rhythmically clutching at her. She blinked her eyes and gazed out at the dimly lit cabin. Long faint lines of morning light filtered through the windows and played across the rough wooden floor. She honestly didn't remember falling asleep on Sam—again. She had no excuse; she wasn't drunk this time.

She slowly lifted her face to look up at him. He was sleeping, but it wasn't a peaceful rest. His face was twisted in a painful grimace. His brow was knotted in deep furrows. His lips were pulled back showing his teeth clenched hard, and the muscles in his jaw trembled with the effort. Soft staccato grunts jerked their way out of him.

Sam was obviously dreaming. Kaya knew he was struggling with grief over the loss of his brother, but she had the gut feeling the dream was more than that. What she saw on Sam's face was grief, maybe, but it was more than that. What she saw was terror.

"Sam?" she whispered and lightly touched his cheek.

His body jerked awake, and he slowly opened his eyes blinking at her in stunned surprise.

"You were dreaming. Nightmare?"

He didn't answer and she knew whatever the terror in his dream, it was bad. He was obviously shaken and she couldn't stop the wave of desire—the need he stirred in her—to comfort him, to make the terror in his eyes go away. It was the same fear, the same need she'd seen in him the first day they met. His eyes were the same haunted eyes that pulled her up the mountain in the midst of a snow storm to find him. It was his haunted, soulful eyes and the desperate need in him that seemed to pull her to him. It was primal, a feeling deep in her soul, and it was frightening how much his need excited her.

She didn't push him for an answer to her question. Clearly the answer was yes; she'd waken him from a nightmare. She opted to change the subject instead.

"I seem to have trouble confusing you with a mattress."

He huffed out a small laugh and lifted his arms, releasing her, as they both sat up. "I don't mind."

He ran his hands over his chest and then he stretched them high above his head while he let out a deep yawn. When he managed to get all his muscles straightened out, he smiled at her. "At least you didn't drool on me this time."

_Thank God for small favors_. She rolled her eyes and smirked at him. "I don't guess that one's going to be forgotten any time soon."

"Nope." He stood and bowed his back, stretching the bottom half of his long body. "I need a new sofa. This one's lumpy as hell."

"I wouldn't know," she said.

At first he looked confused but snorted out a small laugh. "Glad I could shield you from my killer sofa."

"Sorry," she tried to sound contrite. "I guess it didn't help to have my added weight on you. You must have felt like a Sam sandwich."

The laugh that burst out of Sam was loud and beautiful—a spontaneous moment of pure joy that seemed rare and precious.

"That's good." Sam blushed and turned away from her, toward the refrigerator. His laugh was stunning, but she thought that shy blush of his just might be his best feature.

"I'll get breakfast started." He glanced back at her with a smile. "You hungry."

No, she decided his dimples were his best feature or maybe it was the combination of the blush, the smile and the dimples. She needed to shake herself out of this train of thought before she got lost in it.

"I'll make coffee," she said and dived for the pot.

Breakfast was simple. Bacon and eggs. True to his word, as he'd told her before, Sam wasn't much of a cook, but bacon has a way of always being good, even if it is a little burned. The eggs on the other hand, were definitely overdone having been cooked to a light crispy brown around the edges and kind of rubbery in the middle.

Kaya couldn't help but smile when she looked up and caught Sam watching her, apparently waiting to see her reaction to his not-so-perfect breakfast.

"I told you—"

"I know. Not much of a cook. It's okay." She chewed with a little more enthusiasm. "It's hard to cook without a proper stove." She pointed her fork toward the woodstove. "That one's really just for heating. Besides I don't mind rustic."

"Good, cause this old cabin kinda defines rustic."

"Well, you've made a start on changing that—adding a few comforts. You won't regret putting in the solar panels." She made a vague gesture toward the roof.

"I know." Sam's eyes lit up. "I've got hot water." Kaya didn't quite follow. "For a hot shower?"

"Oh, yeah," she nodded. He looked so delighted. She wondered what on earth he'd done when he stayed here for months without a water heater. Cold showers? Bird baths out of a basin? She could see those broad shoulders and muscled chest naked in the cold, his big hands scrubbing quickly at skin pebbled with goose bumps. That was a mental picture worth remembering and another train of thought she had to shake herself lose from.

"Want to be the first?" he offered.

"What?" She'd completely lost the conversation.

"The shower . . . hot water? I'll clean up the dishes while—"

"Or I could just go home. I don't have any clean clothes, you know."

Sam's light banter suddenly changed and there was that edge of desperation—of need—that Kaya had seen in him last night when he convinced her to stay.

"I've got clean clothes. You can borrow some of mine," he suggested.

"Yeah, Sam." she gestured at herself. "Because your clothes would fit me just fine."

He looked defeated.

"Besides," she added, with a coaxing smile. "I have a hot date tonight and I'm not going out with your oversized clothes falling off of me."

His mood lightened a bit. "You might have to pick the restaurant. I haven't been anywhere but the diner beside the laundromat and the hospital cafeteria."

"Well, that's tragic." She grabbed his empty plate and stacked hers on top. "We have some wonderful food in Whitefish. We're a tourist town, remember?" She wandered to the trash can and scraped the remains of her breakfast into it. "Want a good steak?"

Sam nodded and moaned his agreement. "Sounds great."

"Roadhouse it is, then."

"Roadhouse?"

"Yes. It's not what it sounds like. It's not a dive. In fact, it's a very nice place. Wonderful food, and the best steak in town."

Kaya chatted about Whitefish while they finished cleaning up breakfast dishes, and Sam seemed totally at ease when she walked toward the door and picked up her coat, so much better than last night. "I'll see you tonight, Sam."

"I'll pick you up at six?" He leaned down and she lifted her face up for the kiss she'd hoped was coming. It was sweet, gentle, chaste, and she felt his warmth pour over her. When he was at ease she felt it, like warm sweet honey deep in her soul, but when he wasn't, it stirred a need in her—a need to comfort him, to make his pain go away—a need to fix him. It was both exciting and distressing.

…...

Bloody fingers encircled the silver chalice as black, dead eyes focused on the swirling blood within. Mumers and evil whispers floated through the air. The demon hummed and called out to the King of Hell.

"This is pointless," the demon whined. "and it's boring as hell."

"Don't disrespect my kingdom." Crowley's warning voice slid from the rippling surface of the blood. "I do a great many entertaining things here in Hell." His voice turned low and angry. "And I'll do them to you if you keep complaining."

"But Winchester hasn't made a move to hunt in months and even when he did he was totally useless. He's no hunter without his brother. He's not a threat. I think he's broken—traumatized." The demon's face twisted, and he muttered softly. _"Weak, stupid humans."_

"Do not underestimate Sam Winchester!" Crowley's voice exploded from the chalice with such force that blood splattered across the face of the demon. "I do the thinking. You follow orders."

The demon winced and its tongue flicked out nervously licking little spots of blood from its lips. "Yes, sir, but—"

"Do not become complacent about Sam Winchester."

"I could kill him," the demon suggested. "Then we wouldn't have to worry about what he does—_which is nothing," _the demon added, once again muttering softly, not intending to be heard.

"I am surrounded by idiots," Crowley bemoaned. "Keep watching. He will find a way to get his brother back or his brother will find a way back to him. The two of them will seek each other out. And they will find the prophet."

"But he's not even looking." The demon winced, expecting another explosion of blood from the chalice, but there was stony silence. The demon put the chalice down thinking the conversation was over. "Fine. I'll just play with him a little." A smug smile crossed the demon's face.

"No! You idiot."

No longer smug, the demon's face contorted in fear as the blood within the chalice bubbled with anger.

"Do not do anything to make Winchester suspicious, or he will find you out, and he will kill you. When he does, I will find your ordeal most entertaining."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," the demon cringed.

"God. When Lucifer created you people he was not looking for intelligence or creativity . . . or . . . how are you still alive?" An impatient sigh slipped out of the blood-filled chalice. "Sam Winchester is the only lead we have, you half-wit. We watch him and he will lead us to the prophet with or without his brother."

"Yes, sir."

…...

Sam left the cabin early for his date. He was thankful he could take a hot shower, and stand under the rush of relaxing warmth as it spread through his body. He felt much cleaner than when he did quick in-outs under freezing cold water that left him shivering and his muscles knotted.

He rummaged through his clean clothes. He didn't know what kind of place Roadhouse was. It sounded like a casual kind of place, but Kaya made it sound pretty upscale. He hoped a suit wouldn't be necessary, but he knew he would need something better than his Army/Navy and thrift store attire. Luckily he had new clothes, the ones he'd bought to wear to Big Pines.

The black jeans were a bit tighter than he was used to and set kind of low on his hips, but the sales woman had assured him they looked good on him, and they were perfect for a date. _A date_—he hadn't had one of those in years. A handful of hot passionate encounters was all he'd had since he'd dated Jess at Stanford. Eight years, it had been eight years.

Sam watched his reflection in the mirror. _What the hell am I thinking?_ His hands trembled, as he fumbled with the buttons of his crisp white shirt until he got them all done, then slipped on a black leather vest. _What the hell do I tell her when she asks about me? I can't tell her anything about me. _He tucked his shirt into his jeans. _If she knows what I do . . . what I've done . . ._

Sam took a deep breath and pushed on. He picked up a light blue tie with a lavender diagonal stripe. Then he picked up a solid blue silk tie. _Should I wear a tie? Does it make me look dorky?_ He wondered what Kaya would like. He'd seen her once when she wasn't in a uniform. He couldn't remember what she wore—something low cut, like a tank top maybe, with lace and jeans. He looked from one tie to the other, from one hand to the other. _I'm over thinking this. She's a casual kind of girl. _

He tossed the ties to the bed and ran his hands through his hair as he stalked through the cabin. At the front door he put on his jacket and a pale blue and tan plaid scarf which he put around his neck. It was too cold for just a leather jacket, so he grabbed gloves and a black knit hat. There were blankets and a heavy coat in the car if he needed them. He back-tracked to the refrigerator and rummaged around until he found a bag of scraps he'd gotten from the butcher, and he deposited them in the cold box on the porch on his way to the Impala.

It wasn't a smart thing to leave meat out near the house. It would draw wild animals, but that was Sam's intention. He meant to help the wolf to make it through the winter. He didn't want it to starve and die alone, and he knew it had already discovered the cold box. _Something special for you, boy._ Sam glanced around the edge of the forest as the loud squeak of the Impala's door opening echoed in the emptiness.

…...

Kaya rubbed light gloss over her lips and took a last assessing look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was loose, freshly washed and falling nearly to her waist. She pulled it away from her face second-thinking her decision and wondering if she should put it up or tie it back. No, she decided to go with her first instinct and flipped it behind her shoulders, leaving it free.

Her coral dress complemented her russet skin tone. She'd been shopping earlier and bought it especially for tonight. She spent most of her days in uniform or jeans, but she thought tonight should be special. She wanted to look and feel feminine. She spritzed on a light perfume.

A thrill ran through her and sparked deep in her belly. Her fingers brushed across the turquoise pendent that dropped from her neck. She liked the contrast of the blue against the coral of her dress. The dress had long tight-fitting sleeves, a high, boat-neck that curved gracefully around her shoulders and dipped to a low back, opened to her waist. It was fitted at the waist and flared out gently to fall just below her knees. She turned and glanced over her shoulder smiling at the small sliver of skin peeking at her waist. The naked skin hinted at her bare back hidden under the long thick curtain of her hair. The dress reflected the pure elegance of the late fifties. She was no blond, pale-skinned Kim Novak, but she looked good, and she felt sexy. She rolled her eyes at her own vanity. _I'm going to freeze._

She clasped a multi-strand turquoise bracelet on her left wrist atop the long sleeve of her dress, and put small turquoise studs in her earlobes. One last time, she glanced at her face making sure her makeup was right—not too much but enough.

When she heard Sam's knock on the door, her stomach flipped, and a jolt of panic skidded up her spine. She glanced in the mirror one last time, doubt clouding her mind. What if she was over dressed? Sam was a casual kind of guy—very casual. She stared at her reflection. Sam was thrift store casual. Of course, she'd only seen him working at the ranch or at the cabin, right? And actually he'd only asked her out because he owed her dinner, right? He didn't say it was a date. _Was this a date?_

Sam's second knock brought her out of her near panic. She gave herself a stern look. This self doubt was not something she was used to. But lately, around Sam, she both comfortable and insanely nervous. _How is that possible?_

When she opened the door, she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from staring like a silly teenage girl. Sam's large frame filled the doorway. He was hot in black—black jeans, black boots, black leather coat. The one punch of color was the light blue scarf around his neck, and it made his usually hazel eyes appear blue. He wore his usual slight blush and bright dimpled smile, and Kaya was speechless.

Sam apparently didn't notice her sudden inability to form intelligent sentences. Those impossibly blue eyes were scanning her appreciatively from head to toe. "You look beautiful," he told her in a breathless whisper, and the look on his face told her she'd gotten it right. The dress was a good idea. Sam liked it.

Kaya could feel the Impala's powerful engine rumble, vibrating through her body. She knew they would be noticed in the classic muscle car. Whitefish had more than its fair share of classic car enthusiast, but the Impala was special. Who could miss its perfectly-polished, black finish sparkling in the bright, colorful Christmas lights as Sam drove through uptown?

Sam parked a couple of blocks from the Roadhouse, and they walked along the street, taking in the Christmas decorations. He kept his arm around Kaya's shoulders. His gloved hand clasped her upper arm, and he nudged her close to him, shielding her from the cold. He kept his pace slow and casual, which was a good as she would never be able to keep up with his long stride normally, let alone in the heels she was wearing.

The streets and sidewalks were cleared of what would be an almost constant blanket of snow through the rest of the winter. Lights shone up through the naked trees that lined main street making them glow like fireworks frozen against the night sky. Multicolored lights and lanterns of Santa faces and Christmas candles crisscrossed above the street. Thanksgiving was over and Christmas seemed to have bloomed on main street.

Kaya breathed in the crisp air. This was her hometown. The decorations reminded her of Christmases spent with friends and family. Excited anticipation raised her spirits, and she wanted to share it with Sam. She watched as he glanced at the lights. He didn't seem impressed, but he smiled as he looked down at her, a little laugh escaping his lips.

"You're really into this, aren't you?" He sounded as if it was hard to believe she'd love Christmas as much as she did.

"Well, yeah." _Isn't everybody as least a little into Christmas? _"It brings back all my childhood memories."

"Yeah, I guess it does." He continued smiling at her, but she could tell he didn't share her enthusiasm.

"We have a big family get-together every year at Christmas—aunts and uncles and cousins—lots and lots of food . . ."

"Sounds great," Sam stopped and pulled open the door of the Raodhouse. "Here we are." He stood back, holding the door for her to enter. "Hope the steak is as good as you promised."

"It will be."

Dinner conversation turned quickly away from anything Christmas related. Sam effectively shut down her enthusiasm when he stated very simply that there was only his father, who was usually drunk or passed out while he and his brother shared a bucket of extra-cripsy from the Colonel. Kaya gathered from his tone that he didn't have good Christmas memories, and she felt a pang of sorrow for him. There was an incredible sense of loneliness in his simple explanation, but he said the words matter-of-factly as if he'd come to terms with his childhood disappointment years ago, and it no longer hurt.

Steering away from holidays, Sam asked a lot of questions and kept Kaya talking about her family, her father and what she remembered of her mother, which was very little. He seemed to enjoy hearing her tell stories about her grandmother, who practically raised her. His eyes were sincere when he told her he would have liked her grandmother very much, and he wished he'd had one like her.

Kaya asked Sam questions about his family and growing up, but his answers were short and seemed evasive. Apparently, getting to know Sam Winchester was more of a challenge than she thought.

…...

As soon as she slipped inside the door of her house, Kaya toed off her shoes. She wasn't used to heels. Boots were here standard footwear. It came with the job. But the night had been worth the complaints from her feet. She liked the look in Sam's eyes when he seemed to gaze at her. She felt like a woman, sexy and desirable.

She slipped off her coat and laid it across the back of a chair by the door. Sam followed her lead, toeing out of his boots and discarding his coat and scarf on top of hers. "I'll make some coffee, or I've got some ginger peach if you'd rather have tea. I've got beer, too."

"Whatever you're having's fine." Sam padded behind her to the kitchen in his sock feet and watched while she filled the kettle and put it on to boil. She could feel him move close behind her as she stood at the stove.

"I like this dress." His voice was soft and his fingers gently grazed her neck, sending a shiver up her spine as he gathered her hair at her nape.

She reached up and pulled her hair over her shoulder revealing her bare back and leaving his hands free. She felt her body tremble, her breath caught in her chest and molten heat bloomed deep in her gut. She waited.

His hands settled gently on her waist, his thumbs circling on the skin of her lower back. "God," his voice trembled. She felt the tickle of his long hair as he leaned down and touched his lips to her neck, just where it joined her shoulder. His touch was reverent, and she let out a shaky breath.

Sam kissed along her shoulders. She felt his tongue lap at the nape of her neck, just a quick tantalizing tickle as he tasted her. He pulled her hips against his before his hands left her waist and skimmed their way up the naked skin of her back. When he reached her shoulders, he smoothed his hands down along her arms, over the tight sleeves to her hands. Lacing his fingers into hers, he pulled her arms up and placed her hands on the back of his neck.

"So beautiful," his hot breath whispered into her ear as he slipped his hands down her arms.

Kaya's fingers carded through his hair tangling at the nape of his neck. His hair was fine and soft, just as she imagined it would be.

When Sam slid the tips of his fingers under the side of her dress, and they grazed the flesh under her raised arms, moving down lightly, barely touching the side of her breast. Her fingers grabbed at his neck. She arched her back. Her nipples swelled to hard nubs and begged to be touched. She couldn't stop the hiss that fell from her lips with her sharp intake of air.

"Shhh." Sam kissed and licked at the soft skin just below her ear and worked his way down her neck as his hands moved—his fingers still under the edge of her dress—rough and calloused along her goose-bumped, pebbled sides.

"So beautiful," he repeated as if it was the only thought in his head. She felt treasured, worshiped, delicious. And when the teapot whistled—rude and loud—shattering the blissful moment, Sam took his hands away and backed off. The spell was broken, and she felt suddenly empty.

…...

They settled in the living room on the sofa with mugs of steaming tea. Kaya wasn't sure exactly how it happened, but they ended up with her feet in Sam's large, warm hands massaging while she answered his questions about being a ranger.

"The way you describe it, the animals, the mountains and valleys—the way you see this place, its so beautiful." Sam cupped his hands around her foot kneading the ball firmly with his thumbs, then stretching each toe and teasing out a crack from the joints.

"God, Sam," Kaya groaned. "That feels so good." She'd never had her feet massaged before. It was pure heaven. He applied the same firm pressure to her heel and worked his way up to knead her calf, before working his way down to her toes again.

"Do you ever take anybody on these trips with you? I mean, other than rangers."

"Surveys. They're surveys. 'Trips' kinda sounds like a vacation. It's work."

"Sorry. Surveys." He gave her a sheepish grin.

"S'okay. Sometimes, well actually, rarely. We had someone with us this week, though, a photographer."

"Like a National Geographic photographer?"

"No, he's free-lance. But I'm sure he'd like to sell his work to them or some nature magazine or the park service."

"What's his name? Maybe I've seen some of his pictures." Sam's eyes were focused on his hands as he continued his soothing massage of her foot.

"Mark Longrider. He's young, just getting started with his work, but I think he's really good, and he seemed to have a real feeling for the land."

"Longrider? Is he native?"

She wasn't sure why that would matter to Sam. "Yes. He's Blackfeet, same tribe as me. Is that important?"

"No. Just curious. Was he with you out on the range all day? Do you sleep out there?"

Sam's thumbs found a knot in the ball of her foot and his hands clasp tighter, his thumbs digging deep and hard into her. She hissed at the pain, and tried to pull her foot away.

"Ayiii." She winced, but when he released her foot, she felt the knot melt away, and she relaxed.

"Hurt so good?" Sam smiled at her.

"Yeah," she huffed. "And to answer your questions, Mark didn't ride with me because his stallion made Penny kind of antsy, and no, we don't sleep on the range. We sleep at the station house." She wasn't sure where he was going with these questions, and the easy feeling of just a few moments ago had vanished.

"Here." He held out his hands. "Let me have your other foot. I promise it won't hurt." She offered him her foot, but only because he gave her that dimpled smile she was beginning to love.

"What about you, Sam?" Kaya tried again to get Sam to open up and talk about himself. "You're in the middle of beautiful forest, and a natural lake that's miles from civilization."

"I . . . yeah." He kept his hands busy with her foot, but his eyes were locked with hers, weighing the question. It wasn't meant to be that hard, and she wondered what he was afraid to tell her. He finally broke his stare and looked down at his hands as if he was suddenly fascinated with the massage he was giving her.

"I've been down by the lake a couple of times. It's pretty much frozen, at least around the edges. I saw a hawk and a wolf."

"A wolf?" Kaya's interest was piqued. She knew most all the land and the animals in this region of the country. She'd cataloged and monitored every herd and pack in the area for the last five years. "There are no wolf packs in that part of the forest, haven't been for years, since before I was born."

"It was a black wolf," Sam added. "I've seen him a couple of times, but I've never seen any other wolves with him. I don't think there's a pack."

"Wolves are social animals, Sam. They live in packs and hunt in packs. They don't survive alone, not for long."

"I've heard it at night—a single wolf's howl—never another with him," Sam insisted.

"A lone wolf?" Kaya speculated.

"I thought it was just an expression."

"Sometimes a wolf will leave the pack or be driven out. If he's lucky, he'll find another lone wolf—a female—and start a new pack."

"And if he's not lucky?" Sam released her foot and rubbed his palms on his jeans. Kaya had the feeling he knew the answer.

"He won't make it through the winter. Most likely he'll starve."

"Beautiful nature," Sam snorted.

"It is beautiful. Beautiful and terrible. It's like a birthing process, the birth of a new pack, new lives." Kaya swung her feet to the floor and scooted closer to Sam. "Birth is not without pain and risks. If he's able to find a mate, there'll be a new wolf pack where there hasn't been one in decades. That's kind of exciting."

"I've seen him in my dreams," Sam admitted, but he didn't give her the details of his dreams.

"Seriously?" She wondered if he was afraid of the wolf, if the wolf caused the terror she saw in him when she woke him from his nightmare.

"Yeah. In my dreams, I see him in the forest, and I hear his howl."

"You think the wolf in your dreams means something?"

"I . . ." His voice died in his throat and he held her gaze. He looked as if he did think it meant something, but that he was unsure of what she would think of him if he admitted it.

"A wolf in your dreams is not a bad omen," Kaya said. "European ideas about wolves—"

"I know." Sam cut her off. "They're blood-thirsty predators, evil like werewolves."

_Where did that come from? Werewolves? _"Yeah, I guess that's part of European lore, but Native American lore is different. A wolf in your dream could mean many different things." Kaya sighed. She was no expert, but she plowed on with her thoughts. "We admire the wolf. He's intelligent, brave and strong." She watched Sam follow her words thoughtfully.

"Yes, I've read that. I took a humanities course on Native American Art." Obviously Kaya's expression was questioning. Sam stumbled over his explanation. "There were a lot of animals in the art work, and we learned a bit about . . ." He shrugged and the words died on his lips.

"Our view of what we call "four-leggeds" is quite different." Kaya picked up his train of thought. "Especially brother wolf." Sam nodded. "Wolf is a keen hunter and a defender of his territory, but he's also devoted to family. He's intelligent and a teacher. The wolf is also a true survivor."

"The first time I saw him, the live wolf, I was afraid. I thought he might attack me. I came up on him at the lake."

"He didn't attack." It wasn't a question. She knew Sam would have been badly wounded if he'd been attacked by a wolf, and actual wolf attacks on human's were unheard of, unsubstantiated lies.

"No. He watched me, like he was sizing me up, and I guess he decided I wasn't a threat so he ignored me."

"What about your dreams? What does he do in your dreams?" Kaya was fascinated. The wolf was a powerful animal spirit.

"He's leading me somewhere, but I can never catch up to him, and I'm not sure what he wants me to see."

"Maybe the wolf is your animal spirit."

"I don't know, a keen hunter, devoted to family, a true survivor? Sounds more like my brother than me. Maybe my brother is trying—" Sam stopped talking, his lips slammed together in a tight, thin line.

Kaya saw the hurt in his eyes. "Maybe," she conceded. "But maybe the wolf is trying to show you who you are. Strong and brave—a true survivor." She reached up and cupped her hand to his cheek. His eyes were soft and she gazed into their gray-blue depths. She wondered if she would ever find out the secrets he kept pinned inside, but she wanted to know those secrets. She wanted to know Sam Winchester.

…...

_**TBC**_


End file.
